Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles has just become a Junior when he comes to Beacon Hills. 

He just turned sixteen, skippng a grade back in elementary school, and like all sixteen year olds, he doesn’t have life figured out as much as he thinks he does. When he was in Clementine, Illinois he felt like every detail in his life was scripted and already sent off to the big guys for production to a crappy and boring indie film they wouldn’t even show at Sundance.

But when his grandma on his mom’s side passed, her house in Beacon Hills was either going to be torn down for the next door neighbor’s who wanted a bigger garden, or given to any family she had left. His Dad jumped at the opportunity to get out of Illinois for numerous reasons. One, it’s grandma’s house, the house he first met Mom in and proposed to her in. Two, Stiles needed to get out of town. Incidents are a thing and there’s things you just don’t talk about. 

And that’s pretty much how he finds himself leaving at 2AM with his father out of the fairly small town of Clementine, Illinois. He packed all the belongings he had, wanting to keep everything and then nothing at all from the house he’s lived in since he was thirteen, but decides he’ll sort through it all when he’s unpacking in the house. In the passenger seat of his Dad’s red Ford Explorer -- he left the deputy cruiser back at the station, but got to keep his old uniform and badges -- he changes his location on his social network pages to a small text “California” without any details on the city. 

(Thirty people like it, and four comment equal expressions of “why?” but he only replies to the two (actual) friends he has through private messages. They understand, and tell him to ignore all the ‘likes’ he receives. He was already doing that, but he still says “thanks.”) 

His Dad stops at numerous pit stops for gas, each time they trade off on who will drive. They don’t stop to eat at anywhere, just buying from drive-thru’s and replaying songs on his phone connected to the radio. When his Dad is sleeping in the passenger seat, he’ll put his favorite song on repeat and roll down his window just to feel the wind through his hair and words fly from his lips to somewhere he knows no one will hear. 

It’s slightly over three days when his Dad shakes him awake to look at the “WELCOME TO: BEACON HILLS / POPULATION: 8,999” and Stiles gets this goofy smile on his face.

“Hey, Dad,” he says, adjusting his seat and snagging the seatbelt from his neck uncomfortably, his tone telling something he finds funny by how bubbly it is under the surface. 

“Yeah, kid?” He glances wearily at him, already expecting something odd or silly. 

“Over nine thousand now, right?” Stiles busts into a fit of giggles. 

His Dad snorts and starts snickering with him, knowing full well about the Dragon Ball Z references his son makes from all the time he spent watching it with him when he was younger. 

The straight road ahead of them surrounded by foreboding trees and dark forests doesn’t seem half as bad as it should with his son still giddily giggling along with his own chuckles as they drove further and further into Beacon Hills.

The house is clean and bare as a whistle when they arrive. Excluding a slight sheen of dust slowly forming on the windows, but that’s nothing and the gardens in the front and back yard has colors only the saturation option in photoshop could offer, Stiles thinks. Its two story outside doused in a sweet cream color makes it look warm and inviting, even without any lights or curtains in the inside. Maybe that’s because it’s 4AM and the darkness is clouding any and all blemishes the house may have, but Stiles likes to think that’s not it.

“Well, let’s make a deal, Stiles.” His Dad finished surveying around the house, just looking around and checking the doors and windows for any hint that someone may be inside the home believing it would be uninhabited for awhile, and Stiles wouldn’t have been too surprised if there was. He’s heard some crazy stories about his Dad’s job. “We’re gonna unload the car, go inside, set the beds and curtains, take a nice, hot shower, go to bed, wake up, finish setting up everything, and then we’ll get breakfast.” 

“Do you really think we’re gonna finish packing everything quick enough to get breakfast?” Stiles is already lifting up the trunk and getting the closest boxes, his Dad unlocking the door to the new home and walking back to him across the yard. They parked in the front of the house, despite a very open drive way that leads to a two-door garage. 

His Dad takes the load off his hands when he’s close enough to him, pausing to get a good, straight look in his Son’s eyes to know he means what he’s going to say. “I think we’re just gonna have to hope you’re fast enough to, or we’re getting lunch, and I will get fries with my bacon cheeseburger and milkshake.” 

“You totally set that up in, like, two seconds.” Stiles says, smiling slightly as he goes back to the car shaking his head. 

His Dad lets out a laugh as he enters the home, and Stiles catches a glimpse of a warm looking brown couch in the living room over a fancy-ish rug on dark wood floors, the walls a dark color tint that matches well with the rest of the ensemble. It reminds him nothing of the house in Clementine, where there was light wood floors, an off-white color on the walls, and a cream-ish colored couch. It was too bright and too dull at the same time. It didn’t feel right after awhile. It didn't feel right to have a party in it. It didn’t feel right with police officers in it. It didn’t feel right to see his Dad sitting down on that coach, the dark bottle of alcohol contrasting horribly. 

He sighed softly. It was just the beginning of summer. Beacon Hills' school’s closed not too long ago, if he remembers correctly, less than a week. But, overall, he thinks this won’t be so bad. 

For now, at least. 

Chapter Text

Stiles and his Dad are sitting in a booth at a local diner eating all the things he wanted yesterday. 

His Dad woke him up at the pristine hour of 10:45am. Just early enough to be counted as “morning” by local fast food joints, but also early enough to be overwritten as “afternoon.” He knew his Dad was that type of person who automatically wakes up as soon as the sun is just viewing over the horizon -- unless he had pulled an all nighter, or which case something equally draining for the job he has -- because that’s what he was taught long ago in the academy. Stiles’ mom was like himself in sleeping habits: could stay asleep until late, late in the day unless smacked hard enough. 

Because his Dad must have been awake around the house and putting up everything without waking Stiles, Stiles only glared for the first 10 minutes when the food came. However, Dad did make sure to strictly tell him that he needed to have all the things he wanted unpacked before they left for any lunch. Stiles dragged his body around as long as he could before even he was about to die from how hungry he was. 

(His Dad would later tell him that he had went to get some fruit as soon as he woke up, knowing full well Stiles would take his time to spite him. And ooh, his Dad was good.) 

He ended up with a room that had all his tech in relatively handy places, a bed with his pillows and blankets, an entire bookshelf of books, movies, trinkets, and memorabilia throughout his life. The walls would be later painted to a navy-ish blue sometime in the near future to match his sheets, he decided.  

There was also other shelfs with just picture frames, including a picture frame by his bed of his Mom, Dad, and him right before his Mom got really bad in sickness at a ice cream parlor and they all had ice cream over each other’s faces that had wide, happy grins. It was his favorite picture ever, other than the one by his laptop of them all dressed as superheroes.  

(Dad was Superman, because no matter what anyone could ever say, his Dad will always be his Superman. Mom was Wonder-Woman, of course, because she said it was “the only superhero woman done right.” And Stiles was Captain America. He remembers crying over how he wanted to be Iron Man, but the store only sold this one raggid, not-very-artsy costume of it. His Mom convinced him to be the good captain because she’ll make him “the best shield ever” so he wouldn’t have to put up with the flimsy cardboard one they sold with the pretty accurate costume. The shield hangs on the billboard atop of the desk the frame sits under, next to a liter of pictures of his two friends in Clementine, first concert tickets, memorable birthday cards and drawings, among other things that wouldn’t quite fit around the rest of his room.) 

Sitting at the diner with his Dad, who is happily devouring all his food with a smile that has ketchup on the corner, he decides -- not for the first time -- to just focus on the now and not the before. It will give him a better after. 

Dad’s started to talk about how he’s going around to the local police station after lunch. He talks about how he sent his papers and files to them not long before they left, and that they’re talking about possibly recruiting him up to work alongside the sheriff. He asked why they would pair a supposed newbie with the sheriff, and his Dad shrugs. 

“I don’t know,” he says while wiping his mouth with a white napkin, taking a swing from his milkshake. “I suppose it’s to show me around the woods. Figuratively and literally, as  far as I can tell.” 

Stiles just hums and listens to his father for another hour or so. It’s when they’re walking out after leaving the waitress a fair tip that his Dad looks over at him with a gleam in his eye.

“There’s a surprise for you back at the house.”

Stiles may or may not of ran to the car to trip and bang his head against the rearview mirror. And then he’s just sitting in the car raving to his Dad a million questions about it and how he should totally drive a little faster while his Dad keeps fussing worriedly over his already bruising forehead.

 * * * * 

Stiles is staring at a blue Jeep in the garage of his new home. 

“It was your mom’s,” his Dad says, shifting with his arms crossed over his chest. He has a faint smile on his face, eyes soft and slightly clouded with reminiscing. “She drove it all over this place when she was around your age. Her Dad bought it for her on her birthday. She named it  When she... passed, your grandma kept it in the garage all these years. I just found out about it this morning, actually.” His Dad is staring at the driver’s seat, as if picturing his mom there. 

And Stiles thinks about how truly sad that is, but then he’s too busy trying to dry his slowly watering eyes because God, he didn’t think it would be this heartbreaking. 

His Dad shakes his head slightly, his jaw set in that angle where he wants to say more, but he won’t, no matter how hard he wants to. 

“And so,” he says again, huffing out a breath and staring at Stiles. “I got a gas can, filled her up all the way, and left her how I found her. Keys still in the ignition, just how Grandma left it. Besides, of course, dusting the windows, but you’re gonna have to go to a car wash for anything other than that.” 

“Dad,” he starts to say, the name a bit croaky. “I... thank you. Thank you, a lot. I mean.. just..” He trails off, noticing how there are black doors and trunk added to the vehicle. It makes him think about whether his mom added them, or it was given to her like that. 

“No,” his Dad says, shaking his head, “Don’t thank me. It was your grandpa, and then your mom, and then your grandma. I didn’t do anything. I just.. wanted you to know that she’s yours now.” 

He looks at his Dad for a second before throwing him in a hug.

“No, Dad,” he says, laughing a little. “Thank you.”

His Dad’s breath hitches, and he plays it out with a cough. The way he said the phrase was just like how his mom had said it so many years ago when he offered to help add the doors to the car. And it was like she spoke through him. 

“You’re welcome, Son,” He says smiling and returning the hug, patting his shoulder. 

“Now, how about you start her up and see how well she’s looking. If she’s good, drive her around the town and look around.”

* * * *

The Jeep’s not perfect, but it’s something. It’s something good, actually. Besides the jerky-ness, and the slightly rusty gear and pedals, everything is practically perfect.  

The first thing Stiles does with the new(-ish) car is clean it. He heads to the first car wash he see: Jimmy’s, a slightly mangy place but has sparkly equipment. Pulling up into one of the empty slots, he notices he’s one of the three occupying the place. There’s an elderly man with a soapy, mint-condition, hot-rod red classic convertible bug, and a blond teen kid with an equally soapy, silver Porsche that looks a lot like Stiles’ age. 

Despite the very credible and very spiffy cars his is compared to, Stiles doesn’t feel a hint of embarrassment or jealousy. He feels pride, giddiness, and something really soft and mushy as he starts cleaning up the Jeep. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s there, probably around ten minutes, before he hears a conversation going on between the two fancy car guys two slots over from him. 

“I don’t even know why someone would settle for less than the best,” the blond kid says, messing with the water settings for his tires.. 

“People do what makes them happy,” the elderly guy says sagely, wiping his mirrors. 

“People do what makes them happy with things they can afford, you mean.” The blond guy adds rather harshly, a sly smirk forming on his lips. 

“Boy,” the elderly man says looking away from his car to give the kid the stink eye. “I do believe without your parent’s money you would have not gotten that car.” 

“Old man,” the kid says, mocking him again. “I do believe without your retirement money you would have not gotten that old car from a dump to give a cheap paint job to.” 

The old man looks speechlessly offended. 

Stiles is totally not right with that.  

And Stiles is also totally not good with keeping his mouth shut. 

“Woah, woah, woah, woah, man,” Stiles says down to the blond guy, instantly getting both men’s attention. “Retirement money? Do you not realize that that man had to work his ass off to earn that money? Or are you too busy buying things with your parents’ credit card to learn a thing about actual hardworking labor.” 

The old man looks appeased by Stiles’ words, if not slightly uneasy. The blond guy, though? Looks freaking furious. And Stiles is not good with conflict, he’s really not, but fury isn’t conflict... yet. 

“Well, excuse me, man,” the guy says like an insult, baring his teeth, “but I think anything I’ve been saying to this guy here has nothing to do with your scrawny ass. Finish cleaning your piece of crap Jeep and stop eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.” 

Stiles is not good with conflict, he’s really not, but he’s open for it when the time is needed. And while fury isn’t conflict, it can lead to it fairly quickly. And Stiles is furious.

“My ‘piece of crap Jeep’?” He echoes more to himself than anyone else through gritted teeth. The old man is already hurriedly finishing drying his car, ready to high-tail out of there. The guy around his age doesn’t look like he’s leaving anytime soon. 

“Do you see anything else half as shitty around here?” The guy says back. 

“Hmmm,” Stiles says, feigning thinking. “Let’s see.. well, there’s this thing around here that looks a hella lot like your personality. And then there’s this other thing that looks like your attitude, and your education about where money comes from that’s not from a card, and your smug face, and your very bad habit of looking like a rabid dog that’s just been hit with a rolled up newspaper.” Stiles didn’t realize that the other guy has been making his way closer to him until he can literally feel the guy breathing down on him. The guy’s nostrils are flared and the air roughly coming out of them are brushing harshly against the bridge of his nose. 

“You have got to be new here,” the guy says out of no where, making Stiles blink up at him rapidly, “because no one talks to me like that here. No one is stupid enough to pull this kind of shit over me.” Stiles thinks the guy could tell for other reasons, as well, but he’s not sure which ones. 

The guy’s eyes look so blue this close, almost too much so. And Stiles can’t stop looking at them. They’re nice, sure, but he has got to be wearing contacts. 

“I’m new, yeah,” he says a little breathlessly, “but I can already tell this is going to be a beautifully catastrophic relationship between us if it turns out we’re going to see a lot more of each other. And I get the feeling we will.” He word vomits, backing away slowly from the other. 

He doesn’t look affected at all, just more tense, maybe. “How old are you?” He asks suddenly.

“Sixteen,” Stiles says automatically. “You?” 

The boy closes his eyes, shakes his head a second, and suddenly his eyes don’t look as blue anymore. Did he drop both of them without Stiles noticing with that head shake? What the.. ? “None of your business.” 

“That’s the stupidest answer you could have given me.” Stiles puffs out, annoyed. 

“What would be some more brighter answers I could have given you, then?” The kid bites back, still scratched by the insult about his intelligence not that long ago. 

“None of your business.” Stiles retorts cockily, grinning despite himself. 

The other boy raises an eyebrow, bringing the corners of his mouth down and the middle of his mouth up in a “not bad” expression. “Props,” he says. 

Stiles decides he should at least get the guys name before they fall into silence and the opportunity is still light-hearted. “Stiles,” he brings his hand out. The guy doesn’t take it. 

“Jackson,” he does say, if not a bit bitterly. Stiles doesn’t know whether it’s telling his name to him, or that he probably hasn’t needed to tell someone his name in awhile. He dotes in the thought that it might be both. 

“Well, Jackson, who I still don’t know the age of but guess it’s close to mine, if not a year or so older, that was great banter. Hope we can do it again sometime.” He says a little more or less sarcastically. He’s not quite sure which. 

Jackson must think he’s sarcastic or something, because all he says is, “Yeah, right,” with an eye roll as he goes back to his. 

They finish quick and silently, only barely regarding each other’s presence. Jackson leaves first, not even bidding or nodding a goodbye to Stiles, but he wasn’t really expecting one anyway. 

Stiles ends up driving around and sightseeing Beacon Hills. 

He decides later that night, while drifting off to an episode of Dexter on his laptop with a nice meal of curly fries and another burger in his tummy, that this town is the single most mundane place he’s been to, but with some of the best burgers he’s ever had.

Chapter Text

It’s been a week since he first arrived in Beacon Hills, and his Dad has come home each day so far with an ache in his neck and a story to tell about his day.

Apparently, this mundane and somewhat small town is full of strange cases. 

There’s been some recent cases of burglary in people’s homes, which isn’t far from the norm at all. But what they’re stealing is what’s weird. Goldfish. Who the hell steals Goldfish from people’s houses? 

And then there’s some other recent cases about strange things people have been seeing in the woods. A little under two years ago, the town dealt with a lot of Mountain Lion attacks, despite being far from any zoo for miles and mountains. Gruesome ones, as well.  

A few people have said they’ve seen something a lot bigger than a Mountain Lion in the woods, but when they’re told that it could just be a bear, they get extremely defensive about how “I know what I saw, and I am not going any where near those woods anymore,” which lead to Stiles’ Dad thinking they were doing something in the woods to cause them to be there numerous times in the first place. “They didn’t look the good-natured type, not-so-good pun unintended,” his Dad would grin over dinner at the diner again.  

They still have each yet to go to the grocery store, much to Dad’s happiness and then displeasure when he made sure to order a salad for him the fourth day they came. Whether or not it’s because of laziness or business from him or his father, in that respective order, it was overlooked the morning Stiles woke up with a good wad of twenties next to his phone and car keys.

* * * *

Beacon’s is the only local grocer that has a wide enough variety of fresh foods Stiles can look at. It’s also the only place Stiles has ever known to literally have two and a half feet of space between isles. It’s so cramped, he can barely get through with his overflowing cart. And because the isles are so cramped that he can barely turn to the next isle without knocking into any object in the surrounding ten feet around him, he ends up knocking into a person four feet from him with his cart. 

A very womanly looking -- very beautiful looking -- person his age.  

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry.” He immediately blurts out, only able to watch as a face flashes with something he can’t recognize quick enough before she stumbles back into a row of potato chips. Some of them fall into his cart, but most fall onto the floor in front of him and on the girl. He may or may not think that her stumble was a bit exaggerated, but even he feels bad as she gets a pitiful hit in the face from the bright orange bag of Cheetos. 

“I’m so, so sorry,” he says again, balancing himself on the edge of the large basket of watermelons against the wall to get to the girl. “I really, really am.” 

The girl looks up from him through her curly blonde hair, her eyes innocent despite the heavy eyeshadow around them. “Mind a hand?” She asks, a wicked gleam in her eye and a small smirk on her pink lips. 

“Uh, yeah, ‘course,” he says automatically. He’s beside her, helping her up from being half on the floor and half against the rack. And when she throws her arm around his neck, he does get to see a little more than he already could of hers, but chooses to play it off. “I really didn’t mean to run into you like that.” 

“No, no, my bad,” she says, bending down leisurely in front of him, and he suddenly gets flash that it looks a lot like something else that he really will not think about towards this innocent girl he just met two minutes ago. “I can never see through these isles.” 

“I know, right?” He starts, helping her with the chips and noticing she was holding other foods in her arms before he so greatly ran into her. “I just moved here and come to this place to fill the fridge for my Dad and I when I find myself suddenly squeezing between Nutella and relish cans and oh my god that’s a terrible combination that I never want to say or imagine again, but there’s a point.” He rambles on, helping her with all the things.  

When they’re finished and all her stuff is her arms again, he notices that she doesn’t have mischievous traits to her expression anymore. She looks.. almost inquisitive and refreshed by something. Her head cocked to the side with a small, genuine smile on her lips. He smiles fully back. 

“You’re new here.” She states, as if he hadn’t just said he was. “And you so, so innocent.” She pats him on the shoulder, as if in a friendly gesture.  

“Uhm,” he replies intellectually. “Yeah, I guess you can call a sixteen year old boy innocent to a certain degree, right?” he badly jokes, grinning lopsidedly whilst simultaneously wincing.  

The girl just stares at him and hums, almost sadly. “Sixteen,” she mutters. “Not too far off game, I suppose. Actually, not anywhere near off game.” She suddenly grins broadly.  

He looks at her and blinks.  

She blinks back and sighs, a little sadly. “But even I know when to not give in to temptation,” she says louder, grinning when he flushes heavily. 

He coughs awkwardly, shuffling in place. “Uh, but.. yeah, I’m gonna just go back to shopping and make sure to not run into you again, unless it’s somewhere less crowded, in which case you’d probably not even remember me, so I shouldn’t even --” 

She interrupts him, leaning more on her right leg as she stares at him, still curiously. “Erica.” 

“What?” 

“Erica. My name is Erica.” She says simply again. 

“Stiles,” he replies. 

“Stiles?” She asks, as if testing it out on her tongue and being a name at all. 

“It’s not my real name, but it’s my name.” He really needed to get his brain back sometime soon. 

“It’s a nice name,” she says back, softly. “Your name is nice.” 

“Your nice. I mean, you’re beautiful. I mean, your eyes are beautiful.” He stammers, wishing he was less awkward around girls every second since he bumped into her. 

Erica gets a different expression on her face then, standing straighter as she smiles at him. “I have beautiful everything.” And walks away. 

Stiles just stares in the spot her head once was, the logo of “Doritoes” staring blankly at him back. 

He’s too distracted as Erica waves “bye” to him at the exit doors and gives a flirty smile and wink for him to notice that the chips that fell into his cart from when she knocked them down are being rung up.

He does notice them when his Dad helps him in unloading the groceries from the car to the fridge. He hears a gleeful, “AH-HAH!” before seeing his Dad ripping the Barbeque Lay’s open and stuffing them inside his widely grinning mouth as he escapes from a scandalized and wildly flailing Stiles.

Chapter Text

The first time Stiles sets foot through the Beacon Hills Hospital, it’s for his Dad. 

He’s sitting next to him in the waiting room, casually flipping through a “Homes & Garden” magazine while his Dad is staring uninterested at the television across the room. It’s on a soap opera, the volume all the way down with just subtitles on. The sounds of buttons and faint chatter with the staff is the background noise to awkward staring, shifting in harshly plasticized chairs, and uncomfortable coughing coming from around the slightly crowded area. 

And, God, does this place suck. 

They’ve been waiting for hours and Stiles hopes that this isn’t going to be a regular thing. He makes sure to get his Dad monthly check ups for anything and anything to do with his health. He, himself, just makes sure to take his vitamins with his Adderall in the morning and he’ll be good to go for the day. His Dad, though, is older and has one of the most stressful jobs in the world. And he genuinely likes his job, so that just multiplies  stress levels by the twenties. 

It’s when he’s about to get up to go to the vending machine, already opening his Dad what he would want, when a pretty, dark haired woman comes up to them in a standard nurse scrub. She smiles at them, a genuine one that reaches her eyes and brightens her face and his mood considerably.

“You must be the Stilinski’s.” She states, reaching her hand out to shake theirs. 

His Dad shakes first. “How’d you guess?” 

“Everyone else has been here since before I even started working here.” She laughs lightly, a little hitch in her breath and flinch in left shoulder, as she shakes Stiles’ hand. “I’m Melissa McCall, by the way. Nurse McCall is fine, so is Melissa.” She shrugs, leading them through the doors and around the hall to a room. 

“Do any of your coworkers buzz you on the intercom with a “Calling McCall, come up or call up ASAP” or something?” Stiles says, scurrying between his Dad to get the swirly chair by the window. It might be the doctor’s, but they’re always too polite to ask him to sit somewhere else. And the appointment’s for his Dad anyways, why worry about his kid in the corner? 

Melissa looks at him with something in her eyes, a smile curling around her lips as she chuckles, her left shoulder flinching forward. He can automatically tell that it’s a quirk to all her laughs. “You’re the first person -- kid -- to beat me to the punchline.” 

Stiles smiles wide, taking pride in that little fact. 

And that’s how they continue through the rest of the appointment. Melissa messing around with things to measure and probe and pinch his Dad, and Stiles swirling in the corner, asking and answering questions together with his Dad and her about the town and their life. He finds out that she's a single mom, raising a seventeen year old boy that works at the veterinarian down the street, works late shifts at the hospital, enjoys cooking, and has an over compulsive disorder with the messiness in her son's bedroom. She learns that they recently moved from Illinois, that he's sixteen and going to start his Junior year when school starts, taking residence in the passing of his grandmother that's funeral is coming up in two days, Dad's the new deputy working with the Sheriff, that he likes cooking, too, and his Dad has an unhealthy taste for diner food. 

It’s when Melissa is taking his Dad’s blood pressure, answering a question about the perks in working at the hospital despite the very slow and uncomfortable atmosphere, that the intercom statics over them. 

“Calling McCall, your son’s here, please come up -- or call up,” the female nurse on the com giggled near the end, hanging up with a click. 

Stiles started snickering in the corner, his Dad snorting once before hiding behind his hand with a feigning of coughing, and Melissa just sighed and rolled her eyes.  

“I’ll be quick,” she said taking off her gloves, smiling apologetically. “Sorry.” She adds before leaving the room. 

His Dad turned his body quickly to him when she left, a wide grin on his face. “Calling McCall?” he mocked, and Stiles couldn’t help the burst of laughter that came from it. “These people are so original, you’re fitting in well, son.” Stiles stopped laughing and gapped at his Dad that was in a fit of giggles from his own words. 

“Oh, yeah, thanks, Dad.” He said sarcastically, but with a smile never leaving his face. 

It was about ten or twenty minutes before Stiles and his Dad were met up with Melissa again. She had a crease between her brows that Stiles recognized on his Dad when he came back from a really bad day at work. 

“Everything okay?” His Dad starts to say, beating him to the question.

She looks startled before quickly replying, “Oh, yeah, he’s okay. I mean, I’m okay. Everything’s okay.” She starts putting her gloves on again, muttering to herself, “It’s going to be okay.” 

His Dad and him share a sideways glance. 

None of their business, but... 

“If you need to talk about anything, get anything off your chest, voice your thoughts, we’re here to listen.” He says, and his Dad turns his head sharply to him, giving him the what are you doing, shut your mouth, let me handle this-look. 

Melissa shakes her head softly, smiling a little. “No, it’s okay. My son’s just recently went through this huge mountain of problems that he’s been bottling up without me knowing, and I just found out about them a few months ago, and he’s still opening up to me, and now he has this pack --” she hitches her breath at the word before carrying on -- “of friends that are facing this new problem that’s just crazy stupid and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do as the most responsible adult in that entire group because as that adult, I’m also the one that knows the least about anything.” She starts to breathe really heavy, chest falling and going up smoothly, as if she’s just been freed by some terrible burden, and it makes Stiles a little more bold to actually get up and rub her shoulder. His  dad rests a firm hand on the one she has pressed to his chest with a stethoscope.  

She looks so relieved for a moment, and then she’s suddenly looking at them with a tint of fear and a whole lot of worry.  

“But I’m okay,” she says really fast. “I really am. I’ve been through a lot worse than this, and trust me, this is nothing. I just needed to let it out, too petty to pay for a psychologist. And I don’t do this to all my patients, really.” 

Stiles stands there for a moment, blinking. “We can do this on the reg, if you want.” He says bluntly. “I’m used to being a support of sorts for people with worry and problems. I mean, hello, cop’s son, and all.” Stiles arms flail a bit when he tries to gesture to him and his Dad. He doesn’t add anything about how many times his Dad has salved all his panic attacks and worries, or that the only support he’s ever had to give someone was his father about work and his friends about breakups. And he makes sure to not add that he’s just a sixteen year old kid that just met her. Definitely doesn’t add that. 

“It’s fine,” she says softly. She reaches out, entwining their extended arms and rubbing his shoulder gently with the hand yet to be gloved. “I’m fine. You shouldn’t worry about me, nor my problems. Thanks to the both of you for putting up with my outburst, really. Now let’s pretend that it didn’t happen.” She laughs near the end, a little hitch in her breath and flinch in left shoulder, letting him go. 

He and his Dad just smile small and carry on to how it was before she left the room. 

They finish up about an hour or so later, Melissa pushing Stiles down in the pseudo-bed his father was sitting in prior to give him a checkup of his own. Everything’s good for them both, given their health already. She even makes sure to give him a prescription for a month’s supply of Adderall, despite saying he had enough to last until next month. 

They drive to the police station, passing by places Stiles didn’t notice before. A vet’s place, ice-rink, and a pretty huge galleria in different intervals. Stiles is waiting in the car while his Dad goes in with a file of his district local medical check up they pressed for. 

He’s just casually fiddling with his phone, destroying someone with a 390-193 final score on Scrabble, when he sees from his peripheral a red golden retriever running across the street in front of him. He looks up from searching for a new opponent, watching as the dog starts making these weird distress noises.  

He leans out from his slouch in the chair to see if the owner or anyone else is nearby, and sees no one. He shrugs and turns his head down to his phone again when he hears this terrible, stomach dropping, screech of tires and thud of a body. His eyes immediately shooting up to watch as a white Honda backs up quickly and swerving around the limp body of the the retriever. Stiles is out of his seatbelt and the car before he even thinks, running across the road to hover around the poor dog. 

“Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god, oh god,” he says to himself in a steady tantrum, eyes frantically taking in the injuries of the animal. It’s body is splayed out like it would if it were sleeping, but breathing irregularly while it’s once brown-y red coat now just a sickening crimson red around and on him. Her. Him? No, her. And it’s so scary, but he tells himself to be strong because the animal is hurt. Be strong because the animal is hurt and this blood isn’t his. Be strong and don’t think about anything else. Be strong, he tells himself, and be like his Dad.  

And suddenly, he feels his arms stop flailing around the poor animal and his mind shuts his mouth with a firm line on his lips. His eyes are hard as he picks the dog up, hearing the whimpers she makes as he does so. He feels his shirt and jacket get sticky and heavy with something wet -- blood -- when he lifts her up, and realizes that she has more than two broken ribs that he can feel with his right hand, and her hind legs makes him queasy by how twisted they are over the joint of his left elbow. He doesn’t walk back to the car, not wanting to get blood on the seats and knowing that he’ll have to pick her up -- pressing on bad ribs -- again when they get to the vet around the corner of the trees. 

He sort of half jogs and half power walks to the vet not far away, taking heed to put all work in his long legs and to steady his arms with the dog. He gets to the parking lot, yelling out a “I need some help here!” before a brown haired kid around Stiles’ age comes busting through the door with a curly haired kid right behind him. There seems to be a lot of them around here, he thought. Kids his age, he means. 

He barely has time to register that the fatally injured retriever is out of his arms and in the  browned haired boy's arm and fussing over her before he gets that he’s being ushered inside by a kind older man with a shiny head. He’s lead through the doors, and then promptly let go outside the desk of the lobby. The older man walks casually through the opening of the pushed up piece of wood that once was made use of a sort of extension to the table. He closes it quickly behind him, not looking at Stiles as he goes to the back of the room with the other guy. 

Stiles is left alone with blood all over his front and hands, even some drips of blood on the white of his red Addidas’. He starts shuffling on his legs, running a hand through his already messy hair and the other down his face before flinching them away when he realizes how wet and caked they are from the dog’s blood. He feels like he’s going to be sick.  

He starts to pace around the lobby, unclenching and clenching his hands, wringing his wrists, rubbing his ankles and knees, eyes and mouth twitching, and he’s trying to calm his frantic heart, but it’s not really working. He’s not going into a panic attack, but if he doesn’t calm down quick enough, it could eventually lead to one. And then he starts thinking about his Dad. His Dad is probably coming out to the car right now and seeing him not being there and he’s probably already getting himself worried sick and Stiles really needs to call him. 

He answers halfway through the second ring. “Hello? Stiles? What’s happening? Are you okay? Is there something wrong? Do I need to bring my gun? ‘Cause you know damn well I will.” 

Stiles can’t help the shaky smile forming, his laugh breathless as he just closes his eyes and sinks into a chair to lean his head back against the wall. He presses the phone to his ear, just listening to his Dad’s voice. 

“I’m fine,” he starts to say, starting to bring his hand to his forehead and hair to rub it like his Dad does when he’s trying to calm Stiles down from when he’s worrying too hard or having a breakdown. He pauses for a second, debating whether he should with the caky blood still on his hands. He thinks, “fuck it,” and does it anyways. “I’m good, I am. I just.. I was waiting in the car. I won a Scrabble game -- 390 vs. 193, by the way, whippin’ some ass, I know -- and then I saw this dog. A retriever. And then as soon as I look down, I hear it get hit. And I look up, and there’s a white Honda swerving around it and just leaving her there. I ran over. I picked her up. I thought about taking her to the car, but then the seats.. and the Vet’s not too far away. So I just took her here.” He finishes saying, leaning forward and hunching over. He sighs and flops the hand in his hair down down his knee, just now taking in the insides of the place. It’s almost as boring as the hospital. 

“You want me to come over and pick you up?” His father asks, voice much more calmer than before. 

“I think I’m going to need to stay and tell the employee’s what I told you just now. And then maybe pay them up. I have that money card, by the way. The one for emergencies with that crazy ass amount you put in it. And you’re working evenings now, right? Aren’t you going on shift in a bit?” He says, looking around for a clock. 4:36PM it states. His father starts his shift at 6PM. 

He hears his father sigh on the other end, probably running a hand down his face. “How are you gonna get home?” 

“Walking,” he says simply. His father grunts his disapproval and Stiles rolls his eyes. “Or walking to the car at the station and driving home. But I don’t want to have to wake up at some crazy ass hour to come and pick you up after you get off duty.” 

“You won’t, I’ll ask for a deputy car.” His Dad states with finality. Stiles hears a car door slamming and thinks about how his Dad was already going to drive over to pick him up from wherever he disappeared to. He smiles. “I’m leaving the car keys in the sun visor, the driver’s side unlocked and it’s gonna be parked right outside the front doors.”   

“Fine, fine,” he says, standing up and walking to a large picture frame. It’s a jigsaw puzzle, but finished and framed. He thinks back to how his mom would do that, even after the diagnoses. Buy the one’s with the most pieces. One time, there was a 5,000 piece puzzle she brought home of Florence, Italy. It was her favorite place to visit, she said. He and his parents went when he was a lot younger, around seven years old. He barely remembers any of it, but the food was delicious and trees were beautiful. It took months to finish, and it was about a month before she started to stay the nights at the hospital before it got really bad that they finished it. The picture is framed on top of the fire place in the new house.

“I love you,” his Dad says with meaning and a harsh intensity like he always does. 

“I love you, too,” he replies, with just as much worth as his Dad. “See you at home, bye.” 

He’s pocketing his phone when he notices the older man from behind the table, hands clasped behind his back and studying him. Stiles offers the guy a lopsided smile before he walks over and leans against the flat surface with the palms of his hands and hunched shoulders. 

“Sooo, how is she?” 

“She will be fine,” they guy says, a smile dancing on his lips. “Her injuries were mostly minor, excluding the ones done to her ribs and hind left leg, but the bleeding is stopped and she is bandaged.” Stiles is slowly loosening up the more the man talks, feeling better and less stressed about everything the more he speaks. She’ll be okay, he thinks. She’s gonna be okay. 

“Do I need to tell you the story, or is there.. ?” He trails off with a raised eyebrow. The guy looks undeterred. 

“No, I’ve overheard you reciting it back to your father earlier.” He says calmly, seeming unaffected throughout the entire time they talked. 

“Did she have an owner? Are they coming up now?” He says, taking his hands off the bridge and noticing the faint red marks. He grimaces and tries to wipe it off with the cleanest part of his shirt. 

Something flickers in the guys eyes. “Thankfully, there was a collar. I’m afraid her owner, though, can not be picking her up this evening.” 

Stiles looks up with confusion and curiosity, “Is it a lack of transport? ‘Cause I can drive her to their house if she’s stable enough for no pain. I mean, she deserves a nice night home with her family.” He thinks back to his mom for a second, but stops. He doesn’t want to think about that first night when he waited for his mom to come and read him a bedtime story like she always did before he realized she was laying in a hospital bed miles aways from him. 

“The owner has been missing for a few days now. A young woman in her twenties with short red hair and green eyes, petite, and last seen on her jog with the dog herself. It was surprise to have you bring her over to frantically. We expected something more.. different.” Stiles blinks at the guy for a second, already about to fire off questions about what kind of different he meant, when the brown haired kid that took the dog came up from outside a room. 

“Sorry to interrupt,” he winces, puppy brown eyes that look familiar to someone else that Stiles can’t quite place, “but I overheard about the hit and run-thing, too.” Stiles thinks for a second about how the two guys could hear him talking to his Dad from another room, but then overlooks it as him just talking too loud in a small and quiet place. “Stupid people.” The boy shakes his head with an angry eye roll. Stiles doesn’t understand the grin that forms on his face so quickly from that expression. 

“You’re telling me. I didn’t know what was crappier. The fact they could leave a dog they hit in the middle of the street like that, or the fact their car was more beat up than anything I could of done to their being if I got a hold of them.” 

The kid busts out laughing, and the man’s smile quirks with a soft snort. Stiles likes making people laugh. It always gives him this nice, happy feeling. It makes him feel like he’s doing something good. Like he’s someone positive, like he’s doing something positive. And when there's a little hitch catches in the kid's breath and the flinch in his left shoulder twitches forward, he recognizes that he’s the son of Melissa, the nurse from the hospital. 

“Not trying to sound majorly creepy, by the way, but I just got back from an appointment at the hospital, and the nurse there was a Ms. McCall, and she said that she had a son that worked here, and you guys have the same laugh, so can I safely assume you guys are related or go bury myself in a hole somewhere to wash over the embarrassment in just blurting this whole thing out?”

“I’m Scott,” the boy says easily, a wide smile still on his lips like he’s going to start laughing again soon. “Scott McCall,” he clarifies. He gestures to the older man, “And that’s Deaton. But you gotta address him with ‘Dr.’ in the beginning or it kinda just makes his job demeaning.” Stiles is the one to laugh this time, shaking his head lightly. 

“I’d only think that to be the case,” he says off handedly. “Thanks, Scott. Thank you, Dr. Deaton. For helping me and her back there.” 

“No problem, man,” Scott says. He looks to Deaton with his eyes, passing some kind of question, and Deaton just closes his eyes with a ghost of a smile, nodding his head. Scott grins wide and happy, pulling up the table’s end that can let him pass through to the back.  

“You wanna come to the back and clean up? I got extra clothes that could fit you.” He says, jabbing a thumb to the back of the place. 

Stiles grins and steps past the opening with ease. He feels this weird tingling down his fingers and purses his lips in confusion. He wasn’t used to anything like that. Scott’s already making his way to the back, talking about something that Stiles hasn’t quite caught yet, so he passes it off as something irrelevant and probably brought on by relief of changing out of bloody clothes. Deaton just looks on with something in his smile.

Stiles is at the vet for hours. Not because of anything major or bad happening with the dog -- whose name is Autumn, as written on her collar -- but just with talking to Scott. They became instant friends. Like, instant. It was so weird. 

One minute they’re talking about Autumn and her injuries, the next their in each other’s faces trying to both say as quickly as possible their opinions on one of their favorite bands. And then the next they both know, they’re hanging out in the back with Scott telling Stiles about each and every animal in the place. He’s sharing stories about them, frequently bringing up things that make Stiles blurt out personal stories of his own. They talk about Jackson, the kid he met at the car wash -- it’s after Stiles brings up Draco Malfoy when Scott’s introducing him to a ferret that can do somersaults on wood blocks -- and it sparks an entire hours worth of conversation about him and all the things he’s done wrong to Scott. It leads to Scott talking about his girlfriend, Allison, who’s family apparently has problem with Scott for no set reason Scott shared. 

Afterwards, they order a large pizza from a local place that’s Scott’s favorite and eat it outside on top of the roof, Deaton snagging a piece for himself before they’re up there and he’s busy closing up the place. 

It’s not long before they have each other’s face’s memorized, Stiles pointing out that Scott’s jaw is slightly misaligned and if it’s from an injury or birth trait, and Scott going into this elaborate story that’s like this huge adventure from when he was a kid and made the misalignment worse at some pool party. Despite being set so far back, it ends with Scott talking about Allison. Stiles thinks about a personal question Scott hadn’t answered earlier when he asked -- one about what he hallucinated about at a birthday party one of his friend’s, Lydia, threw that ended with spiked drinks -- and he easily said something about his girlfriend making out with a giant lizard. Stiles was shocked by how easily gave to the question, and how crazy the hallucination was. 

They already have each other’s numbers, and address, and pictures of each other in each other’s phones, and plans to hang out for the next two weeks by the time the sun is long gone and Scott’s phone is buzzing with texts from his other friends. One of them is called Erica, and when Stiles brings her up, Scott gets these huge eyes and says energetically, “Dude! You, like, already met my pack and even mom before me! What the hell!” And Stiles doesn’t point out that he and Melissa use the word “pack” when describing Scott’s friends. Maybe they’re just one big group of diverse people that can’t just be called “x group of friends.”  

They’re talking for another hour about Erica -- which is somehow starting to get Allison in the mix, as well -- before Scott’s phone actually starts buzzing from calls his friends are giving him. Even Jackson had sent Scott a text, which is apparently something he hasn’t done besides once, months ago. Scott looks to Stiles guiltily, answering the phone with quick, “I know, I know, meeting started an hour ago, but c’mon, I’m barely doing anything to help anyways, so let me just say goodbye to Stiles and I’ll be there in..  twenty minutes. Tops. Bye.” He hangs up as fast as he answered. Stiles realizes that he didn’t even let the other person get a word out before he hangs up. He thinks on whether or not he does that a lot, and how much that might get on Stiles’ nerves. He shrugs it off along with the word “meeting” that started an hour ago -- which would be at 10:30PM, if the time on Scott’s phone is correct. Time flew fast. 

“So, I guess you gotta get going, then.” Stiles says, standing up from the roof and offering Scott a hand. He takes it, but it looks like he mostly just got up by himself. 

“Yeah, but it’s cool. The meetings are usually so boring. It’s supposed to be some type of bonding time with my friends at one of their houses, but it’s mostly just with Derek talking about some serious stuff, then getting angry with anyone that starts to fall asleep. We all end up glued together in front of the t.v. in the end, watching some movie one of us picked up when it’s our turn. And Lydia always chooses The Notebook, and it was her turn tonight, so I really just do not wanna go.” Stiles laughs along with Scott, making his way to the latter that leads down. 

“Well, dude, I think you gotta face a problem when it’s handed to you. Personally, I'm a fan of just ignoring a problem until -- eventually -- it just goes away, but that’s just me.” Scott shakes his head fondly, following his way down. 

It isn’t until they’re down in front of the vet’s empty parking lot that Stiles realizes Scott doesn’t have a car to drive to where he’s going to a friend’s house.

“Your car’s at the police station, right?” Scott says out of no where, and Stiles literally flinches back. 

“How’d you know?” He says with wide eyes and a gaping mouth.

“Oh, uhm,” Scott says sheepishly, “I overheard you talking with your Dad, and you said stuff about walking to the police station, so..” 

“Oooh,” Stiles says, looking skeptically at Scott still. He remembers that, but he also remembers saying it from a considerable distance from Scott. He’s been behind the desk of the vet’s, and the room Autumn was in when Scott treated her made it impossible to hear anything from the lobby. He knows that from how he didn’t hear the old lady earlier in the day asking about her cat that Scott was already packing into a cage for her before Deaton even came in to ask about it. He had some freaky super hearing thing going on with him. “Your hearing ability is crazy, man,” he says, but leaves it. 

“But anyways, yeah. It’s over there with everything. You don’t look to have a car here, either, though. You want a ride to your friend’s place?” They start walking down the street, Stiles a bit nervously because of how close they are to a dark forrest, that Beacon Hills seems to be mostly made up of, and at such a late hour. Scott looks perfectly content, though. He’s walking kinda close to Stiles, and he happily took the side closest to the forrest, so Stiles thinks he must be confident in the safety of the place, but still kinda worryingly touching Stiles at odd times. 

“Uh, not really, and you don’t have to. I mean, they’re pretty deep in the woods. And their house isn’t the best, though it’s getting fixed. And I’m pretty sure they’d be mad if I brought someone else out of the select group that’s usually there on Wednesday’s. Soo..” he trails off, shrugging his shoulder a little tensely. 

Stiles looks at him, hard, “Dude, I am not going to be responsible for your death if you suddenly get killed or go missing while you’re walking over there, by yourself, at night, through a way deep in the forrest. No way.” 

They continue bantering for the rest of the way to the car, Stiles getting in and Scott with out of a habit or not realizing it, despite being in the middle of a persuasive commentary on why Stiles shouldn’t drive him to Derek’s place. 

Stiles interrupts him when Scott starts telling him that Derek is a person you “just.. don’t mess with. Because he’ll mess you up. Like, bad. Like, really bad. Like, damn, it will be bad.” And Stiles says, “I’m taking you there, tell me the address or give me directions, and I’ll high tail it out before the guy can even get off his ass to open the door.” 

Scott stares blankly at him. “I don’t want to get you killed.”  

Stiles blinks at him. “A little too late for that, Buddy.” 

Scott is too busy preening about the “buddy” at the end of what he said to realize Stiles is thinking up a new way to get the address from him. He thinks about how starry eyed and dreamy he’d get while talking about Allison. He answered anything Stiles asked while he was distracted about her.  

“I’m sure Allison would want you to safely arrive at Derek’s place so she can totally cuddle with you and watch The Notebook and whisper about how much better you guys’  epic love is.” Stiles has never even seen movie, but he supposes there must be some sort of blockbuster romance between the two main characters. 

Scott’s immediately starry eyed. “Yeah, and she’d..” Stiles tunes him out as he starts to talk about her. He waits just five minutes circling around the Galleria before asking a simple, “Oh, but what was Derek’s address so you can go see Allison?” 

And he lists it right off.

Chapter Text

Stiles didn’t know what he expecting as he drove through the woods with Scott.  

Really, he should have. Scott did warn him about how the house was deep in the woods, but there was literally nothing but trees and grass and dirt. There was one, singular road, but that was on the outskirts of the forrest, and no signs but a speed limit of which he passed awhile ago. 

His Dad texted him right after he saw the sign, writing a brief summary about how weird this town is. To go along with the sudden kidnapping of people’s goldfish, there’s been sudden kidnapping of people’s cats the past two or three hours. Stiles couldn’t think of a witty enough joke to write back, so he left it with emoticons of a cat and a fish bowl side by side. His Dad replied with an emoticon of a thumbs down, as if rating his replies on how funny they are. 

“So,” he starts, fidgeting in his seat and interrupting Scott on how much he’s getting tired of Derek stink-eying Allison. He still never goes into details about any reason behind the things his friends do. “Wanna give me some hints as to find his address in this mess?” 

Scott stops abruptly, his mouth snapping closed quickly. His eyes are wide and it looks like he just realized he’s riding in Stiles’ Jeep on the side of the forrest, despite his intentions not to. Stiles grins sheepishly to the rest of the dark road ahead of him. It’s dark out, he notices. So dark, it’s like everything is pitch black if they’re not in the view of his headlights -- that are on their brights. He wonders if it’s going to rain by how cloudy it is, the moon hidden completely. 

A few heavy drops of water hits his windshield, followed irregularly after by bigger ones. Yeah, he thinks. It’s going to rain.  

“Stiles,” he says, voice hard but with a tint of gentleness. Stiles raises a brow, quickly glancing at him before looking forward. “I think it’s cool that you want to drive me around, really, but it’s far enough. Just let me off here.” He points to a side of the road next to a fallen tree that looks particularly vicious with terrible shadows from his lights. 

No way, he thinks as soon as a rumble of thunder comes from behind them. 

“No way,” he voices, shaking his head, getting a nervous feeling for no reason. “No way am I just gonna leave you alone, far away from any people, in the dark, with a thunderstorm coming this way, and did you know about the animal attacks you guys have gotten off and on for the past two years? I know about them, and I haven’t even lived here for more than a week or so. You’re seventeen, man, don’t be that dumb kid that thinks he’s going to okay walking around in the middle of a forrest looking for a friend, then gets savagely murdered by some wild animal or psychopath or hobo. Hell, maybe all three.” 

Scott visibly flinches, looking at him with a serious expression. “But I’m strong. I know I might not look like much, but being co-captain of the Lacrosse team might give you a hint about that, too.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Dude, I’m going to be honest, even if you had some weird ability to turn into the Incredible Hulk, I wouldn’t let you walk around at night with a bunch of trees and rain and mountain lions. Now give me some directions.” 

Scott suddenly gets this overly affectionate look in his eyes, smiling all dopey. “Dude, we just met, and I feel like we’re best friends. The ones that stay best friends for life.” And he reaches over and jokingly pinches the side of his cheeks. “But that might be because you’re just so sweet.” He ends mushily, speaking high and pretending to be a grandma pinching a grandson’s cheeks. Stiles smiles and laughs, but thinks in the back of his head about the funeral taking place for his grandma after tomorrow. He still needs a suit. 

“I never had a best friend,” he admits quietly, his mood dampening a little with thoughts of his grandma and memories of Clementine. “Let alone any really good friends.” He thinks back on Gwen and Steph back in Illinois, and wonders about why he could never get a true enough bond with them, even after two years; but then with Scott, it happened in practically an instant.  

Scott gets this frustrated look on his face, as if he wants to do something but doesn’t know how to. “I’m gonna be your best friend. I’m gonna be a really good friend. The best of any friend. I promise.” 

Stiles suddenly feels like he’s about to cry, not used to the words. His mind flashes with thoughts on hot hands, hot air, the smell of sweat, the smell of sugar, the smell of something acidic, the puffs of smoke, the glasses on Gwen’s face that reflected against Steph’s flashlight so he couldn’t see her eyes, the white of her teeth, the red of Steph’s cigarette bud as he smashes it in the contents of the red plastic cup by the trash cans, tight lipped, and Gwen helping him up with a loose grip. 

He thinks he’s about to have a panic attack right there, but suddenly Scott’s hands are over his white knuckles on the steering wheel, and he’s brought back from his thoughts. 

He takes a few deep breaths, calming his erratic heart. He thinks over Scott’s words for a second, before slowing the car down to a stop near a bit of a clearing by the woods. 

He looks over a Scott, all big brown eyes, tan skin, and wavy hair that he was sure would be all shaggy if grown out a bit more. He sees an openness there, in his expression, and suddenly he’s confused on why he hasn’t seen that expression on Gwen and Steph ever in his life. And while that thought scares him again, he stops it and just looks over the rest of Scott, lank in the passenger seat of his mom’s Jeep. 

Scott is... something different from anyone he’s seen before. 

“Yeah,” he says softly to himself. “Yeah,” he starts louder, with a wide, genuine smile. “best friends. We’re already best friends. We’re going to be.. something. Something great. Like a duo in comic books. Like Batman and Robin. But, uh, hey, I am not going to be Robin.” 

Scott’s face splits in a huge grin, jumping from his lank position to jump and practically sit on top of Stiles. They’re both laughing suddenly, just patting each other and giggling when the other’s breath ghosts over their necks.  

And suddenly Stiles feels like he’s just acquired something he’s been missing his entire life. 

The way through the woods is quite scary and absolutely morbid when you’re about a foot away from crashing into a tree with a thunderstorm over your car and nothing but your headlights to lead the way through. Scott’s been repeatedly fussing beside him, telling him that he should stop and just turn around, that it’s dangerous to be driving in this weather even outside of the woods. But Stiles is a persistent person, and he will definitely not leave his newly obtained best friend outside of anywhere besides a nice warm home. 

Scott’s squinted from behind the windshield alongside Stiles. He seemed to have had the same amount of trouble seeing along with him, as he should, but every now and then would suddenly shout a warning for him to stop or slow for things like stumps, growing puddles, and mud ridges; just things Stiles couldn’t see for some reason. 

It look longer to find the house than it could have, Scott’s phone increasingly growing more furious with it’s buzzing. Occasionally, he’ll answer a call from Allison or that guy Derek, but not any one else’s. At one point, he could hear the booming voice of Derek after Scott said he’s got a ride from him, coming to the house now. It was mostly muffled from the hard pitter of the rain on his car, but he still made out the words, “Stupid” and “Hell” and “Identity.” Stiles chose to pretend he didn’t hear anything. 

Scott grew more anxious when he suddenly said that they were really close. Stiles didn’t get how they could be close at all, as it only seemed like they were making circles. 

And then he saw the lights inside of a dark house with a few cars parked around the front. The house looked extremely foreboding, the frame looked weak and somewhat battered in the dark. He really didn’t expect anything less from a house in the woods, and suspected the house must be a lot better in the light. 

As soon as he pulled up beside a dark Honda, he noticed six figures standing extremely rigid on the porch, one already down the first step, and the light from the house through the window casting an eerie shadow against them. He couldn’t make out any faces or actual clothing. He could tell that one was a girl, or looked like one, by the long, blonde curls cascading down her back and shoulders. He saw two other figures come out from the door, females, and a lot less stiff than the other, yet still looking cautious.  

Stiles gets this sick feeling out of nowhere, a feeling he absolutely resents, and snaps his head in Scott’s direction. Scott looks wary, eying the mass on the porch, and glances to Stiles. Stiles isn’t amused, especially when he notices the fists half of the six people before are making at their sides. Definitely not amused. 

“Dude, I knew you said they probably wouldn’t like me driving you here, but they’re standing in front like I’m about to go ape-shit on you. Like an abusive husband. Or boyfriend. And, yeah, okay, we just met and are already practically best bros, but, dude, I am not at all up for violence. I hate violence, unless someone hits first, then that’s just self defense. I think we can solve everything with just a good ol’ fashioned talk. Do I need to tell them anything? ‘Cause I can, if you want. So long as they don’t viciously try to hurt me. And I got a bat in the backseat if worse comes to worse. I don’t even play baseball, but it was in the house when we moved in - why my grandma had that, I’m not sure, maybe it was my mom’s or grandpa’s? -- and I’m totally not afraid to use it against some teenagers around my age.” Stiles rambles, eying between Scott and the group. He rambles a lot, but he was definitely one to talk even more when nervous. And sometimes that doesn’t lead him in the best situations, as he has come to understand, but he can’t stop even when he wants. 

“Stiles,” Scott says loudly, snapping him quiet. “You don’t need to talk to them. I will. They’re just being... cautious.” 

“Yeah, okay. Okay. But I am, too, so don’t think I’m just going to leave you here with some abusive pals of yours. Unless they’re not abusive towards you, but anyone close to you. Then I’m good with just leaving and you texting me when I get home. And that’s cool, actually. So cool, that I really wish that will be it. Really, really wish. Is that it?” Stiles says, squirming in his seat. 

“Yeah, that’s probably it. But.. it’s safer if you wait it out. Wait until the rain stops.” 

“Aren’t you going to be leaving sometime? Or are you guys having some big sleepover, too?” 

“Uh, well, actually.. sorta. It’s a kinda new thing we’re doing. During the summer, at least. Just staying over a night each week, sometimes more. Just to.. hang.” Scott looks extremely uncomfortable, wincing halfway through his explanation, like he just told himself to say something, but ended up saying something else.  

“Uh, okay, cool.”  

Scott opens the door hurriedly, jogging out into the still pouring rain and up the porch steps. He’s immediately crowded into the house by everyone. A few stay longer outside, just staring at him, or at least facing his direction. The last person to go inside is the one that was standing on the first step in front of all the others. He slams the door loudly behind him. 

Rude, Stiles thinks. 

Stiles has been waiting in his Jeep for the past hour, waiting for the rain to ease. It’s extremely boring, and he has on more than one occasion thought of going up and knocking on the door to the house just to do something other than text Scott and play with gaming apps on his phone. 

After the leader-ish guy slammed the door behind him, it hasn’t opened since. Scott texted him profusely apologetic texts, saying that he’s really sorry he can’t come out, that they’re doing something really important, and that he promises he’ll come out as soon as he could. 

However, if they’re doing something so important, why does he have time to text him quick, goofy replies to all of his texts? 

Stiles chooses to believe that his friends don’t want him to come out and talk to him, not because they’re doing important stuff. And Stiles suddenly feels an odd ache in his chest at that. They don’t like him, and they haven’t even seen his face. Was it just because he took their beloved Scott away from them for a few hours? God. 

Yet Scott said that they’re best friends, so.. so, he won’t go all insecure, grade-school girl by himself, in the rain, outside in his mom’s Jeep, with a 56% battery on a phone that was fully charged not that long ago, outside a stranger’s house. 

But, God, is he hungry. 

And that’s when the door opens to the house, the light practically glowing warmth and comfort while he’s caged in a cold car with a semi-working heater. He automatically thinks Scott, but he’s surprised when a shiny red umbrella pops in view. Feminine, skinny legs in a dress are under it, and the person is in a big, dark coat that couldn’t really be theirs; too big from being worn by a person it could actually fit 

Stiles doesn’t even know why he’s automatically rolling down his window as the person comes hoping over to his car. They could have been walking to the other cars surrounding his, or unlocking his doors in case they weren’t fond of standing up outside his car, but he supposes he shouldn’t worry about any of that now. The person -- the girl -- is suddenly right up close to him, a plastic bag shoved straight in his face. 

He blinks. 

“Uh, thanks?” He says, taking the bag and setting it in his lap. He looks up and sees a cute, pale girl smiling softly at him. Her hair and eyes are dark, and Stiles notices that her lips are the same color as the umbrella over her head. He wonders if she had done it on purpose, or if it was an accident, or maybe she didn't know at all. 

“You’re welcome,” she says, and she sounds like sweet and genuine, despite how she’s standing rim-rod straight. Stiles smiles. 

“So.. uhm, what is it?” He takes to ask, eying the baggy. 

“Look for yourself,” she smiles again, giggling a little. Stiles thinks she’s like a princess, but not one that’s trying to act like one. 

He opens the plastic up, the bag crinkling annoyingly even through the harsh pounding of the rain. He sees that the bag is dry, which is cool, because it’s already in his lap before he even thought about it. He’s even more glad that it’s dry because from all that’s in it, there’s a light lunch in it. A turkey sandwich in plastic wrap, potato chips in a ziploc, a granola bar, and a bottle of white milk. 

“Oh,” he says, surprised and confused on what to say. “Uhm, thank you. Thank you a lot. But what’s this all for?” 

She blushes, he thinks, at least, and tilts her head, umbrella following. “Well, you’ve been out here for awhile, and everyone else is eating in there, and you’re probably going to be out here for even longer, so I figured you were going to get hungry at least sometime.” She smiles and shrugs, and Stiles kinda just stares with a slightly open mouth. 

“That’s...” he trails, looking back to the food and back at her, “nice. Great. Awesome. Fantastic, really. Thoughtful, to be accurate. I mean, I’m not going to lie, I was getting a little hungry, but that might be from the boredom, too.” 

She looked happy in the beginning of when he talked, but when he said “boredom,” she suddenly got this guilty and frustrated look on her face. Eyebrows scrunching up irritably and bottom lip jutting slightly. She was really cute. 

“Sorry about that,” she said. “It took forever to finally convince them to let me come out here. And even then, they’re just listening to the conversation anyway.” Her eyes got a bit wide as she said that, but he just shrugged. 

“It’s cool,” he said nonchalantly. “my Dad would try to listen to all my phone calls with a girl back in middle school. Of course, any girls I’ve ever talked to on the phone just wanted help on homework because I was so nerdy, but it was so annoying. One time, he even laughed out loud -- in the speaker, when I told this girl I sorta liked a really geeky pick up line involving algebra. It was so bad. I was embarrassed for weeks. And she never called back again.” He rambled, because he really doesn’t have a brain and mouth filter, and Allison out right guffawed.  

She threw a hand up to her mouth, still laughing and bending forward and backwards. It was adorable, but Stiles came to the conclusion as her eyes sparkled and voice like soft bells, that she wasn’t really that type of girl. She was more like.. a sister-ish type. Which a lot of girls always seem to be, whether he thinks so or they see him as the brotherly sort.  

She calmed down and apologized. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually laugh at someone who went through such a bad experience. Not that I was laughing at you, it was more of the story and how you said it! And I totally know what you mean about Dad’s and stuff, mine  practically sets security cameras around the entire town to watch what I’m doing.” She looked guilty again, but comfortable, not standing so straight anymore, and even opening up about her family.  

Stiles laughs himself. “No, no, it’s okay. I didn’t take it like that. I actually preferred it. Usually when I ramble, people just give me weird looks. Thanks.” Stiles felt like an idiot for thanking someone about laughing at something he said. Like he was really not that used to being “funny,” which is so not it. He’s hilarious. At least his Dad thinks so. And probably Scott. And now maybe this girl. 

This girl. 

Stiles furrowed his brows. He never even asked for her name. Wow, he really was an idiot. 

“Uh.. I just now realized I don’t know your name.” He stated blandly. He winced at himself. “Uh, I’m Stiles. Stilinski. Stiles Stilinski. Just moved here not that long ago.” He offers her his hand in a shake. 

She takes it, grasping firmly, smiling. “Allison. Allison Argent. I moved here last year. Beacon Hills will definitely... grow on you.” She releases his hand and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear, her pony tail bouncing a little as she shifts her feet like a mannerism for something. 

“Allison...” he says under his breath, because that’s the name of someone he’s supposed to know, but he doesn’t know why. Wait. “Scott’s girlfriend?” He asks. 

Her smile widens impossibly. “Yes,” she states simply.  

He smiles back. “He talks about you a lot. I mean, I’ve just met the guy today, and we’ve hung out and are best friends already, but he talks a lo about you. Good things, of course,” he adds, not trying to embarrass his new friend. 

“You guys look like you’d be a great pair,” he says honestly, and Allison’s smile is even bigger, which is just.. even more impossible. 

“Thank you. You guys look like you’d be the best of friends,” she says back, and Stiles has to grin widely at that. And this entire conversation seems to have turned into big smiles and small but meaningful words. 

“Thanks,” and they fall into silence. 

Allison shifts on her feet again, and she looks like she wants to say something, but stops herself. 

“Well, I’m, uh, going to go back in the house. Please stay safe.” She says quickly, turning on her heel and walking away. He calls out a “You, too!” before rolling the window up. 

And god, it’s freezing.  

Stiles looks through the bag of food again, deciding to start with the milk and drink some. As he drinks, his eyes go up to the house. He watches as Allison hesitates from walking up the steps. She’s standing stiff again, and just when he thinks she’s going to start walking again, she extends her hand out from under the umbrella. He watches through his already fogging windshield as she just stands there and lets the rain wash over her hand. 

He looks away, embarrassed. He feels like he’s looking into something personal, which isn’t something he ever really does. Stiles is impersonal, he just squirms through any openings you give, any details you supply, and he takes them and keeps them for himself to bring up at some random time, just to show you that he listens. But some people think this little quirk of his is stupid. Some people think it’s annoying. And some people lie and tell him it’s cute. 

Stiles frowns and his eye twitches. He sighs to himself, shaking his head and taking a big bite out of the sandwich. 

It’s three in the morning when the rain is finally light enough to drive through. He doesn’t bother with any goodbye’s, just a quick, “I’m leaving, dude” to Scott and then getting back an urgent, “R U SURE?” Stiles pulls out and around for his headlights to shine over the trees. He sees an opening to where the other cars took, which is probably only half of what he originally took to get here, and just sends back a “Yeah, it’s fine. Tell Allison thanks again for the food. It was nice.” 

And when he finally falls into his bed, tired and cramped, he realizes that today wasn’t too bad. That today was more pleasant -- carrying a dead dog from the street, finding a best friend and having a practical panic attack in front of him, then sitting in a car for hours in the rain -- than any other day back in Clementine.

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.