don't be dull, be fannish

Stiles doesn't quiet down anytime soon despite Scott's panic-stricken whispers of shh, shh. She thinks it takes about an hour - only it feels like seconds that they're standing there - before the tears on his face are dry and sticky and his breaths are hitching as he turns and leans his face into Scott's chest.

Three days later he can’t remember who you are, and his father admits him to the hospital for long-term care. It feels like the first step of the end of days. You stay in the room until your mother throws you out or you can’t stand it any more and then you run, you run through the preserve, surrendering to your grief and your wolf and nothing else, because it’s far easier to be made up of those two things than to be Scott McCall. Half of you is dying in little bits and pieces and the rest of you can’t be much concerned with anything else.

When you were still just a child (and this was before Allison and before the bite and before everything in your life got really fucking weird really fucking fast), your best friend's mother died.

And sometimes you'd be with him and it was like the air was suddenly not there, and his lungs would throb and his skin would go pale, clammy in your hands and there were tiny beads of water welling up in the corners of his eyes, and it scared you. It scared you every time.

Stiles doesn’t flinch when he moves toward him, slower now, trying not to spook the boy. His limbs are drawn, arms wrapped around his legs, quivering. In that instance, the Sheriff doesn’t see his seventeen-year-old; in that moment, Stiles is eight again, curled up in an uncomfortable hospital chair as the Sheriff rushes in, too late. Always too late.

"What's wrong with me?" Stiles asks, grasping at Scott when his legs don't move right.

"I think you're learning how to use your body again," Scott says, neglecting to mention that this body might be a brand new body. That he's never been this confused in his life. It's simpler to focus on Stiles' heartbeat and his unsteady breathing and the way he holds onto Scott without hesitation.

"Lydia go! I don’t want to hurt you, please, he’s going to kill you,” Stiles warns, “Get out of here, run as fast as you can and scream!"

“Please?” Stiles wheedles. “Let me see the ring at least. I promise I’ll act surprised.”

“Nope.” Scott pulls to a stop at a red light, and Stiles immediately starts poking him.

“But Scott,” he whines. “I’ll just sneak through your stuff looking for it if you don’t show me.”

“I’ve apparently turned into a mushroom when I wasn’t looking,” Lydia replies testily.

“Uhh,” Danny says, because he’s smart enough that he can usually mostly keep up with Lydia, but every once in a while he really wonders about her brain.

“The collective They have decided that the best way to deal with me is to keep me in the dark and feed me shit.”

Derek really does want to ask about the possibility of some terrible childhood incident. Because there's no way that Scott never landed on his head at least once as a child.