Chapter Text
Stiles
The world is a whole lot easier to deal with when you’re drunk.
All the jagged points and edges smooth out and soften. Things that would normally have you cursing from the pain suddenly become very funny, and are barely thought of again until you discover the bruise the next morning and wonder where it came from. It’s easier to bounce back, to recover, to get back on your feet. And, the most liberating thing about it, is that alcohol gives you the courage to say what’s on your mind. To feel every emotion without inhibition or shame. To face the things - the people, you couldn’t otherwise face.
That’s probably the only reason why Argent taking him to Derek’s apartment isn’t causing him to have a panic attack right now.
Getting up the stairs is a chore. Why the hell couldn’t Derek get somewhere closer to the ground? Stiles is very aware that Argent is doing most of the heavy lifting and the fact makes him want to start apologising all over again, but he knows it would be futile. He could apologise a million times and it still wouldn’t be enough.
“I can go the rest of the way myself,” Stiles mutters, his words slurring together into one long jumble. Somehow, Argent deciphers this, and doesn’t waste a second in replying:
“No, you can’t.”
Stiles’ pride takes a hit at that, but the older man isn’t entirely wrong. The world around Stiles is swaying and spinning, making him see double. It’s like he’s trapped in a glitchy video game. The sensation makes his stomach churn and he has to focus all his energy on not vomiting. It’s pretty likely that if Argent were to let Stiles walk by himself, he’d topple over immediately like a bowling pin. And he doesn’t think hitting his head twice within 24 hours would bode too well.
As they draw closer to Derek’s door, Stiles can make out voices coming from inside the room, and he suddenly feels sober as a judge. The pack must be here. He can’t tell who exactly, but Derek definitely has company. He pushes clumsily against Argent’s chest.
“I’m not going in.”
Argent doesn’t respond. Just keeps marching forwards, dragging Stiles along with him. Stiles tries to muster up some energy to fight him off, but the effort makes him feel horribly queasy and he has to shut his eyes and swallow the bile that crawls up his throat.
Spots dance in his vision. Great. Him fainting would just be the cherry on top of this. The whole night is filled with gaps, moments that his memory can’t supply anything for, but he’s pretty sure he was still conscious for most of it, if only barely. He’s just got to cling onto reality for a little longer and-
They’ve made it to the top of the stairs and Argent drags Derek’s door open. The voices inside stop immediately and Stiles can only imagine how ridiculous he looks - a frail teenage boy, half fallen over, clinging for dear life onto the usually smooth and unruffled Argent, who probably looks more than a little disgruntled at the moment.
The image makes Stiles laugh. The sound echoes around the uncomfortably quiet room, as everyone continues to stare at them. He must look crazy. He laughs more, his ribs shaking from it. He feels himself slip slightly from Argent’s grip.
“A little help, please?” Argent says to the room, agitated.
Stiles topples forwards, watching as if in third person as he approaches the concrete floor, but before he can hit it, a strong pair of arms catch him, hoisting him back up.
He looks into the face of his saviour - well, he tries to. But it’s hard to know which one to focus on. He reaches out a hand to gauge the real one. There it is!
“Thanks, Derek,” He mumbles, smiling appreciatively, patting the man affectionately on the cheek, “I knew you liked me, really.”
Derek, surprisingly, doesn’t immediately swat Stiles’ hand away. He examines the teenager keenly, before looking at Argent.
“What happened?”
“He’s drunk,” Argent replied, “do you have somewhere he can lie down? He’s been outside through the night, I’m worried he might be hypothermic.”
Derek clearly wants to ask more questions, but he swallows them for now. Stiles is glad because he doesn’t think he can explain anything properly at the moment, and he also doesn’t really want to. No, passing out sounds like a much better option.
“I’ll take him to my room,” Derek says, hooking Stiles’ arm around his neck in order to help him walk. It’s the exact same hold that Argent had him in, but it feels much more secure when it’s Derek. The werewolf practically carries Stiles as if he was nothing, with no strain or effort at all.
“You’re pretty strong, Derek, have I ever told you that?” Stiles asks, allowing his legs to go limp - no need to move them when Derek’s got it handled.
“No, you haven’t.”
“Well, it’s true. But don’t let it go to your head, okay?”
“Okay.”
Stiles blinks sleepily and when his eyes reopen, a bed is in front of him. He looks around blearily, frowning in confusion at his supposed teleportation. He’s in a small room, the only contents of which is a double bed with clean white sheets and a window looking out over the town. There’s nothing to make the grey walls more personalised or homey - Derek isn’t really one for decorating, Stiles supposes.
A door clicks shut from somewhere behind Stiles, and he turns to see someone else has entered the room too. It’s hard to make out her features with his darkening vision, but he’d know that strawberry blonde hair anywhere.
“Lydia,” he says in greeting, unable to stop the fondness seeping into his tone, “hi.”
“Hi, Stiles,” Lydia says politely back, smiling at him sympathetically, “let’s get you into bed, shall we?”
With Lydia and Derek’s help, Stiles climbs into bed. The duvet sheets are cold and crisp, as if he was the first person to ever occupy them. He shivers slightly, curling himself up into a ball. He’s aware of how child-like and pathetic he must look to the two watching him. If they didn’t think he was weak before, they sure do now.
“I’m sorry, guys,” he manages to mumble out, teeth chattering. Cold had started to properly seep into his bones now. Maybe staying out all night wasn’t the best idea, but the alcohol had kept him so warm. If only he could get his hands on some more…
“There’s no need to be sorry, Stiles,” Lydia assures him gently, sitting down on the bed next to him. Derek stays standing behind her, arms folded across his chest.
Stiles suddenly can’t bear to look at either of them. He shouldn’t be allowed to lay eyes on them, not after all he’s done. How can Lydia be sat next to him right now without her skin crawling? Smart, beautiful, thoughtful Lydia, who he kidnapped and tormented and whose best friend he killed. It must be torture for her to see him every day. He wonders if sometimes she sees him and for a moment all she can see is the Nogitsune. That happens to Stiles sometimes, when he catches his own reflection or glimpses himself in a mirror. It’s hard to escape your demons when they live in every reflective surface. Stiles shuts his eyes, a single tear slipping out as he does so. His lips tremble as he speaks, and he’s unsure if it’s from the cold or the ache in his chest, or maybe even both:
“Yes, there is. We all know there is, you’re both just too polite to say it. Everything that’s happened… It's my fault. It’s all my fault-”
“You were possessed,” Derek interrupts him, voice surprisingly neutral considering the situation, but hey, that’s Derek for you. Unshakeable.
“But I’m the one that let him in,” Stiles protests, “in Eichen House. I… I was meant to stay awake, but then that guy, Brunski, he drugged me and I passed out and…” Stiles rubs his hands over his face. His head hurts. In his intoxicated state, the memories of what happened to him at Eichen house became harsher and overwhelming, jumping out at him like night terrors. “I should’ve just let Morrell kill me. Or I could have done it myself. I mean, someone else killed themself right when I arrived so it wouldn’t have been impossible.”
Stiles’ head grew heavy. Like it was a weight being dragged down into the earth’s core. Memories, ghosts, shadows, they all smothered him, luring him into unconsciousness.
“I should’ve tried harder,” he managed to utter, his mind darkening, the lights going out one by one. He hoped the hangover wouldn’t be too bad tomorrow, “and now you all hate me. And I can’t blame you. I hate me too.”
And, finally, he fell into the numb bliss of oblivion.
Lydia
Lydia always used to have a strong sense of self-preservation.
Back when things were normal. When she was just a regular high school queen bee, striving to be the most popular, the most beautiful, the most envied. The majority of her peers would’ve called her selfish, and they wouldn’t have been wrong. She did whatever she could to get ahead, even if it meant she had to be cruel sometimes.
She still had that ambition, but she didn’t see herself as selfish anymore. She liked to think that she’d changed. That thanks to Allison and Stiles and Scott, and everything the whole pack have gone through together, she’s become a team player. Someone willing to put herself in danger for the greater good. Someone who wants to help others, even if it hurts herself sometimes.
But it’s hard to see yourself as selfless when the boy lying asleep in front of you just confessed that he should’ve killed himself in order to spare all his friends.
A stone had sunk to the pit of Lydia’s stomach at all of Stiles’ words. First his apology, then the revelation of what happened to him at Eichen House… as he’d said it, it had struck Lydia that she’d never actually asked him what he went through in there. None of them had. It had been forgotten in the wake of their grief. But she felt like kicking herself now for never approaching him about it, for not being more considerate. And then, the most heart wrenching admission of self hatred, said with such nonchalance right before he passed out. As if it had lost meaning to him - it wasn’t something to feel bad about, just something that was an innate truth of his life. He looked almost at peace now, his jaw hanging open a bit as he breathed deeply in and out, long eyelashes fanning over his pale cheeks. Ironic that right when Stiles finds a modicum of respite in unconsciousness, he leaves Lydia in turmoil, standing in the wreckage of the bombs he dropped.
“We should leave him to sleep,” Derek said from behind her.
She’d almost forgotten he was there. Quickly brushing the tears away from her face, she turned to face him, nodding.
“Okay.”
They both exited the room, silence hanging like a noose between them. Lydia opened her mouth a couple of times to talk about what they both just witnessed, but her words turned to sand on her tongue. By the stiffness in Derek’s shoulders, she could tell that he was thinking about it too.
Right before they got back in earshot of the others, Derek turned to her. His intensity would’ve been intimidating if she didn’t know that it stemmed from worry.
“Has he ever mentioned any of that to you?”
“No. Never. Not that there was much of a chance…”
“Not much of a chance?” Derek scoffed, “there were about two weeks between the Nogitsune and right now where any of you could’ve checked on him, but you didn’t.”
Lydia felt her cheeks turn red.
“Funny, because as far as I know, neither did you.”
“That’s different,” Derek scowled, “you’re all closer to Stiles. You go to school with him, you’ve known him for longer. Scott’s meant to be his best friend.”
“Well, a lot has changed.”
Derek sighed, a hint of exhaustion bowing his usually perfect posture.
“Yeah. I know,” he looked at her then. Lydia’s instinct was to look away from his piercing gaze, but she held firm, lifting her chin up stubbornly, “after… that… I hope you can at least find it in yourself to stop being so scared of him.”
That took Lydia aback. Shame bled into her veins.
“I’m not scared of him.”
“You are. I can hear it in your heartbeat. How you tense around him, always a little on edge,” Derek paused as if awaiting a response, but Lydia couldn’t summon one. Eventually, the man turned around, “He’d never do anything to hurt you, Lydia. You know that.”
Lydia pressed her lips together, eyes flicking down to the floor, feeling somewhat chagrined. She did know that, deep down she did. She’d been feeling guilty for her avoidance of Stiles since the Nogitsune, but after what just happened, and now what Derek had said, she felt like a horrible person. Like somehow, despite all her growing and developing, she’d wound up being the same selfish bitch that she used to be.
Before she could properly wallow in that, Derek walked away, and Lydia felt inclined to follow. Best to properly consider her feelings later - now is not the time to be making things about herself.
Lydia and Derek reentered, the pack standing expectantly, all of them looking up at them as they came in. It looked like they’d not moved since the three of them had left. Argent still stood in the door, hair ruffled and mouth tugged down in a thoughtful frown. Kira tapped her foot against the floor anxiously, while Isaac fiddled absent mindedly with the scarf wrapped around his neck. Scott looked the worst, his chest rising and falling rapidly like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a hunter’s rifle. He locked onto Derek and Lydia as soon as they entered.
“Is he okay?” he asked immediately.
“Not really,” Derek replied bluntly before Lydia could even open her mouth. Scott recoiled as if slapped, but Derek didn’t spare him a second glance, turning to Argent, “what happened?”
“I got a message from the sheriff tonight. Apparently they had some kind of argument and Stiles just up and left. I found him at the preserve with a half empty bottle of jack in his hands.”
Lydia felt her throat close up. She imagined Stiles, all alone, drunk and shivering out in the woods all night.
“Which leads me to my question,” Argent continues, his fiery gaze contrasting his cold demeanour, “where the hell were all of you?”
“We didn’t realise he’d run off like that,” Scott murmured in response. It’s strange how Scott can be so strong and imposing when he wants to be but at moments like these he’s reduced to the scared teenage boy he was before the bite, “we thought he’d gone home.”
“Haven’t any of you guys been talking to each other? How could you not know he was feeling like that?” Argent questioned.
“Feeling like what?” Kira piped up, intercepting the conversation before Scott could, which was probably for the best because Lydia could already see that his hackles were raised.
Argent paused, staring at them all incredulously, before shaking his head in disbelief.
“He was apologising to me. Over what happened to Allison. He thinks it’s his fault.”
Lydia already knew that from what Stiles had just said before he passed out, but hearing it again from Argent felt like the knife being twisted.
“He said that to us just now too,” she said. Everyone turned to look at her. She tried to avoid Scott’s gaze, knowing that all she would find in it would be hurt and questions that felt too private to answer, “he says he’s the one who let the Nogitsune in and that he should’ve tried harder to fight it off. And he also said…” She swallowed, eyes flicking up to Derek who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “He just said that it’s his fault.”
While part of her thought it would be good for the others to know exactly what Stiles had said regarding how much he valued his own life, the other part of her knew it would be a horrible betrayal of trust for Stiles to wake up and find out that everyone knows he wanted to die. This was best kept between herself and Derek for now. Maybe they could figure out a way to broach the subject with Stiles once he woke up.
“And considering certain developments, it’s not entirely surprising why he feels that way,” Derek added icily, his head turning towards Scott, shooting him with an accusing glare.
“What developments?” Argent asked, looking between the two werewolves, “what are you talking about?”
Derek raised his eyebrows at Scott as if to say, go on. Scott’s jaw clenched, his chest rising with anger before deflating suddenly. He turned to Argent.
“Ethan came back. He told us… he told us there’s a way we can bring back Allison and Aiden.”
Scott launched into an explanation of the ritual - how he thinks it would work, the research he’s done into it, the blood sacrifice that Stiles would have to give. As he speaks, Lydia sees a glimmer in his eye that makes her skin crawl. It’s hope. He truly is still hopeful that this ritual will work. Lydia can’t really blame him for that, but she’s stunned that even after seeing what a mess Stiles is, Scott can still think this is a good idea. It’s clear to Lydia that Stiles isn’t in the right mental state to make a decision about being a blood sacrifice, because the boy doesn’t care about what happens to him. If he thought it would make up for what happened, he would hurl himself into danger without a second thought. They should be trying to stop him from doing that, they should be making sure that they don’t lose anyone else. But instead, here’s Scott pitching the ritual to Argent like it’s a business venture and he’s trying to get someone else to invest in it alongside him.
“So…” Argent says once Scott is done, “you think doing this will bring back Allison?”
“Yes,” Scott says confidently, “I’ve done research into it and I really think-”
“All of the ‘research’ you’ve done has led you nowhere,” Derek interrupts, “no two sources have said the same thing about the ritual, there’s no telling what will actually happen.”
“You were able to bring back Peter!” Scott retorted.
“Yes, but as I’ve said before, how can we know it’ll work in this instance when both the sacrifice and the one being brought back are human?” Derek replied, the veins in his neck jumping in annoyance.
“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” Scott said, voice rising to a shout.
“Not if it means we’ll lose Stiles,” Lydia said, her voice quiet next to Scott’s but somehow carrying more weight.
It was something she had said to Stiles himself earlier in the night. I don’t think it’s worth getting Allison back if I might lose you too. The confession of how much she cared about him had surprised them both, but as she stated it again now, it just felt right.
Scott stared at her in surprise.
“Allison was your best friend.”
“And Stiles is yours,” she replied. She wanted to shake Scott into seeing reason, to yell at him until he regained his sanity, but she knew that would only make him defensive. It was best to be gentle with him. “I know what it’s like to lose a best friend. I’m trying to spare you the same pain.”
“The full moon is in two days. We’re not going to get another chance like this for a while, we need to take it while we can.”
“Allison wouldn’t want you to be acting like this, Scott,” It was a bold thing to throw at him, and she knew it would cut deep, but he needed to snap out of this, “she wouldn’t want others to risk their safety for her sake. She wouldn’t want you to be so wrapped up in your own pain that you lost your humanity.”
“I haven’t lost anything, you’re the ones acting crazy-”
“No, we’re not!” Lydia said, her voice jumping up in volume. She tried to drag it back down, but it was difficult. She’d been called crazy multiple times and it was always used to demean her, to invalidate her words and her experience, when more often than not she had been onto something. She would not allow anyone, especially not her friend, to try and determine the worth of her opinion by calling her crazy. “In case you’ve forgotten, Derek and I were actually involved in the last ritual and it was horrible. Peter forced us both to participate in it, which is something I’d expect from him, but now you’re doing the exact same thing! You can’t put people through something like that and still be a good guy, Scott. Don’t be like Peter, okay? Just put it to rest. Please.”
Her palms had become uncomfortably sweaty. Images flashed through her mind as she recalled the last ritual. The damp, dingy house where Peter’s body lay. Derek’s scream in anguish as Peter sunk his claws into his forearm. Peter’s charred, dirt covered body reanimating and rising from his resting place.
As a banshee, she’d become uncomfortably well acquainted with death. And though it was terrifying and disturbing to witness, there was also a peace in the finality of it. Once death had you cradled in its arms, there was nothing that could make it drop you. And that was okay. That was how things were. She couldn’t imagine how wrong it would feel to be awoken from that deep of a sleep. It would be a crime against nature to bring someone back from the dead like that.
“She’s right, Scott.”
Argent spoke up again, his voice contemplative yet resolved. Lydia didn’t know if it was just the way the light was hitting him but she was sure she could see tears lining the edges of his eyes.
“What?” Scott uttered. His bewilderment quickly turned into seething anger, “are you serious? You of all people I thought would get it. After all the hard choices you’ve made in your life to try and do the right thing. I mean, you’ve literally killed people fighting for what you thought mattered. What, is Allison just not worth fighting for?”
Lydia is pretty sure the entire room takes a collective intake of breath at that. The air turns thick and sludgy as time seems to stand still. Argent stands there, cold blue eyes never leaving Scott who looks ready to fight at the slightest provocation. It’s impressive, Lydia thinks, how controlled Argent always seems to be. There’s something to be said for his steadiness. It’s something they could all do with a bit more of right now.
“Everything I’ve done in my life has been to fight for a better future for my family, and that included Allison. But the only person this would be serving is you. You think you need Allison’s murderer for this ritual to work? Well, that’s not Stiles. He didn’t kill anyone, the Nogitsune did. You need to get that into your head because it seems to me like you’re punishing him for something he didn’t do.”
Argent turns to leave, but not before hammering the last nail into the coffin.
“You’re not doing the ritual. End of story.”