Don't Be
Stiles taps nervously on his desk, glances at the teacher and then scribbles in a few answers on the worksheet before turning around to peek at Scott’s. The sheet is as blank as Scott’s expression.
“Dude, you haven’t started?”
Scott blinks and looks up through his bangs, moving his jaw back and forth.
“Yeah, I don’t know, I forgot to do the reading. I had a lot on my mind.”
There’s an ahem from behind Stiles. Mr. Harris is there, arms crossed, frown thin.
“Well, Mr. Stilinski, I hope there isn’t any cheating going on here.”
“No, sir,” Scott answers for both of them, starting to jot down answers, bullshitting at it’s finest. Mr. Harris pushes his glasses up, goes back to the front of the class and Stiles stealthily flips him off before slumping in his seat. He finishes the worksheet and angrily chews on his pencil eraser, breaking a piece off in his mouth that he has to spit out.
Unable to resist, he turns his head to again.
“Okay, so - what was on your mind, Scott?”
“Detention, Mr. Stilinski. See you after school.”
Mr. Harris is almost pleased when he says it, as if he’s been waiting for a reason to give Stiles detention since day one.
“But, I-”
“Want another tomorrow? No? Then quiet.”
Stiles mumbles a few colorful curse words and shoves his worksheet into the hand of the girl in front of him as soon as Mr. Harris calls time. The bell rings and Stiles snatches up his bag, following Scott out of class.
“That guy needs to get the stick out of his-”
“I’ll talk to you later, Stiles,” Scott cuts off suddenly, walking backwards. He adjusts his bookbag awkwardly and then ducks his head, turning the corner before Stiles can reply. Dumbfounded, Stiles stands there, mouth open. It takes a mental list of recent fuck ups to figure out what could be wrong. It doesn’t take long to remember.
There Allison is at the lockers.
And she’s not Scott’s girlfriend.
It’s pretty farfetched to assume they aren’t dating just because Scott didn’t ask her out New Years but somehow. . . Stiles has this crushing weight on his shoulders since then. Since Scott did what he did. . .
On edge, Stiles goes up to Allison and Lydia, against his better judgement anyways.
“Hey,” he says to Allison, “Do you know what’s up with Scott?”
Even though snooping for information is in his nature, he feels sort of weird going to her for this. They’ve barely had a one on one before now.
Allison shuts the locker and her eyes shift a bit, between him and Lydia.
“What do you mean? Is he okay?”
“He’s not talking to me for some reason,” Stiles shrugs, gripping his bookbag straps a bit tighter because damn that hurt more saying it out loud, “Did he say anything to you?”
Lydia grabs her purse from her own locker and then slams it, looping arms with Allison.
“We’re going to be late for Art. Talk about this later.”
“Um,” Allison lifts her shoulders and then drops them with a sigh, “Yeah, I haven’t talked to him much since the other night. I hope he’s okay.”
And she means it, Stiles can tell. The guilt grows and grows.
The girls walk off and Stiles texts Scott, his fingers hovering, mind selecting the right words.
You okay? I’m worried.
Stiles stares and then erases the lines because that’s just not something he should be allowed to say right now. He doesn’t have the right to worry over Scott. If he worries, Scott will worry that he worries, and well - it’s tough having a bestfriend that literally doesn’t know his own self worth. He taps the keyboard on the phone screen and heads to his next class.
What happened?
If only Stiles could have been born a time mage. That way this detention would be over and done and he could stop counting dots on the ceiling. He’s already over eight hundred.
Stiles drops his head and groans without meaning to, earning him a stern look from Mr. Harris - there’s only five minutes left so it doesn’t matter - but he presses his lips together to prevent added time. The asshole wouldn’t hesitate to do that.
Stiles’ eyes travel to the window, to the vacant parking lot. Not even a bird to entertain him, bummer. As soon as his eyes begin to move again, they flicker back to the window.
Wait.
What. . .
Stiles squints and sits up, a prickly discomfort going through his arms.
Outside, by the woods, next to the asphalt parking lot, is a person. A dark figure, a little hidden by the bushes. Stiles blinks and even rubs at his eyes but the figure is just standing there, watching the school.
“You’re done,” Mr. Harris states reluctantly, jolting Stiles’ head forward. When he looks back out at the parking lot, the figure is gone. A chill runs down his back.
W hat the hell?
Stiles rushes to Scott’s house after school, bursts straight into his room the second Melissa opens the front door, and almost falls twice on the way.
“I think there’s a pedophile lurking the school,” Stiles coughs out when he sees Scott. “Or a serial killer. Either way, someone creepy was there, I saw it.”
“What are you talking about?” Scott responds slowly, sitting up from his bed, rubbing at his eyes, “What pedophile - What?”
“Listen,” Stiles urges, sitting on the bed, “I know what I saw. A dark figure by the woods. Somebody was there, Scott, waiting. Waiting for the kill.”
“Or it was literally anything else,” Scott moans, laying back down. “Like a kid smoking?”
“ Kid smoking - Scott, come on! It was after school! And I think when the figure saw me watching, they took off. Like they were caught in the act.”
“Jesus, Stiles.”
The adrenaline starts to dwindle and Stiles finally picks up on how sleepy Scott’s voice is. Heavy shadows accent his best friend’s eyes and a weak yawn escapes his parted lips. Stiles slumps a little.
“Were you napping?”
“What lead you to that idea?” Scott mumbles sarcastically. already drifting back off.
The room grows quiet and Stiles lowers his eyes, leaning out of Scott’s space. He stands up and fumbles with his backpack for all of two seconds before he sits down again, hand on Scott’s shoe.
“You should at least take your shoes off.”
“Mmm.”
“Want me to do it?”
Scott is silent, his eyes shut, his chest already moving up and down evenly. It bothers Stiles too much to leave it alone so he undoes the laces of Scott’s shoe, inhaling as soundlessly as possible. If Scott was so tired that he passed out without even undressing, something was definitely wrong.
“Sorry,” Stiles says stiffly, slipping the right shoe off and dropping it on the floor, wincing at the noise. “About Allison. That was my fault, wasn’t it?”
There’s a clattering noise downstairs - Melissa shutting cabinets in the kitchen, now on the phone with someone. It makes him feel at ease, like he belongs in this house with them. Scott sleeping so peacefully, knowing Stiles is in the room. The McCall’s just being themselves with Stiles there.
“You can still ask her out, Scott,” Stiles rambles, tugging the other shoe off, “You should, I mean. Ask her out.”
This time, he gingerly places the second sneaker on the carpet and gets up. Hopefully Scott would try again, to be with Allison. Stiles had to support that decision.
He goes to the door, looking back wistfully, and starts to close it.
“I can’t ask her out.”
Stiles stops, hand on the doorknob, and then reopens the door, finding Scott’s eyes open. He steps back into the room.
“Why not?”
Scott turns his head so that he’s staring at the closet door, careful not to look anywhere else.
“She’s not in love with me.”
Sensing the change in atmosphere, Stiles closes the door behind him and doesn’t waste a beat going back to the bed, back to the edge, eyes focused on Scott’s face.
“ How ?”
It’s the first thing that comes out of his mouth but it probably wasn’t the best thing or the smartest because now Scott appears only more confused. The silence is unpleasant, thick and smothering. Stiles tries to think of something more intelligent to add but Scott laughs and rolls on his back, elbow going over his eyes.
“I know right,” he smiles behind his arm, gesturing a hand in the air, “How could Allison not be in love with all of this?”
Stiles is about to agree but holds back and falls on his back - by Scott’s knees - and overexaggerates a sigh. Thank God it isn’t his fault.
“You’ll find another Allison,” he consoles, wishing he could sound more earnest. “But sorry anyways.”
“You sound so sorry, Stiles.”
“Well, that’s-” Having no excuse, Stiles bites inside his cheek to shut up and not answer at all.
“Wanna know why?” Scott murmurs, dropping his arm off his face to the sheets. When Stiles hums in reply, he says, “She has feelings for Lydia.”
Never in a million years would Stiles have guessed the end of that sentence. He sits up again, eyeballs popping out of the sockets.
“Are you serious ?”
“Am I the only one who hasn’t fallen in love with Lydia?” Scott mutters, offbeat in his speech, still tired and dejected. It’s sad, the way he says it, hopeless and full of surrender.
When neither of them speak for a minute, Scott laughs a little, the noise dying down over the room.
“I guess you have competition now, huh?”
Stiles sinks back into the bed but it seems invasive to be there now, more than ever. He goes through a thousand ways to comfort Scott all at once in his head but not a single one can make it’s way to the surface.
“I guess so.”
Stiles picks up on all the signs after that.
At lunch when they’re all sitting together, he can practically pinpoint the hearts that fill Allison’s eyes when she’s gazing at Lydia. How her smiles are especially bright when Lydia’s attention is on her. How she casually touches Lydia’s hands and shoulder and face, all innocent to anybody who didn’t know how she felt.
It’s strange for Stiles.
It isn’t right that he knows this secret about Allison - though he can’t deny how much it meant that Scott told him - but what’s really strange is that instead of being angry at her for trying to score Lydia’s affection, he feels a new connection to her. He can understand that doe eyed stare, that unwavering need to be around Lydia, the beauty in how she honeys every conversation so that she’s treating Lydia with the respect and kindness she deserves.
Knowing that Lydia’s last boyfriend was Jackson, it’s refreshing to see her receive genuine care on a daily basis. Even if it isn’t from Stiles.
The weirdest part, is that all the signs he catches from Allison, he relates to not because of his feelings for Lydia but because it’s the way he acts with Scott.
He’s aware of how he’s not a total dick - less than normal at least - towards Scott than he is with anyone else, the way he accidentally zones out on Scott’s face because it’s easy to get lost in his voice, and that bringing a smile to that face is priority to everything else. It’s not quite as rosy as Allison’s methods but he can’t deny the sentiment.
Before their next period, Stiles finds himself alone with Allison. He isn’t sure how to approach conversation with her yet. He’s still coping with the fact that his best friend was in love - and is possible still in love - with her on top of the feelings she has for the girl he’s loved his entire life.
Could the situation get any messier?
Despite that, he decides to make somewhat of an effort, for formalities if anything.
“What’s that?” Stiles asks, curious, when Allison opens her locker.
Confusion spreads on her face as she picks the small pink envelope up at the bottom and opens it carefully, moving so that Stiles can’t be nosy. After a few seconds, she closes it and goes hm and then places it in her purse.
“What is it?” Stiles repeats, going after her as she clears the hallway. She reaches her classroom and grins slightly, turning around to face him.
“Why do you want to know? Did Scott tell you to spy on me or something?”
“What? No,” Stiles scowls, “I just - I don’t know. Do you want me to leave you alone?”
Her eyebrows lift in surprise and she believes him, leaning on the classroom door.
“It was a love letter. It is close to valentine's day, so,” she swivels the toe of her boot on the floor, “Just a secret admirer. Anything else, Stiles?”
He raises his hands in defense but she laughs so he takes it as a good sign. It’s an odd connection but it isn’t so bad. The late bell rings and Allison gives him an amused look, tilting her head down the hall, backing into the classroom.
And Scott said Allison was competition but weirdly enough, it’s the first time he doesn't feel threatened by her.
On the way down the stairs, Stiles catches a glimpse out the stairwell window. There, on the outskirts of the parking lot, is the figure again. His heart flies into his throat and he races to the glass, hands pressed against it, eyes wide. He’s too late.
The figure vanishes back into the woods.
When Scott gets home, he grabs a soda and chicken leg from the fridge before entering his room. There, on his bed, is Stiles, flipping through a bunch of scattered papers, forehead creased in forced concentration. As soon as Scott walks in and shuts the door, his head flies up.
“Scott, hey. Help me write these names down.”
“Should I even ask what you’re doing?”
Scott dumps his stuff by the door and eases onto the bed - pushing some of the papers aside so he has sitting room. Stiles immediately throws a few on the floor and then scribbles on a notebook by his leg.
“I’m narrowing down the names of recently released convicts. I’m gonna figure out who this creep is.”
“What? Stiles, no, that’s - Where did you get this stuff?”
“My dad’s office,” Stiles waves off - because who cares - and tosses another sheet of paper to the side.
“We need to get this back to him, Stiles.”
“I will. Later. Now, help me. I’m using red for pedophile, green for rapist, yellow for assault and battery charges, blue for-”
Scott snatches the highlighter from Stiles’ hand and drops it, stone faced.
“Seriously, Stiles, this is too much for a silhouette in the woods.”
“Uh, I’m aware of that,” Stiles grumbles, meeting Scott’s gaze, “I’m just - I’m trying to prevent something bad from happening. What if this guy hurts someone?”
“You don’t even know who you’re looking for or why or what you saw -”
“There’s a guy looming around in the woods, Scott, and it isn’t a kid,” Stiles challenges, standing up, “I’ll prove it to you.”
“Stiles, don’t-”
“I’m going to find out what this guy wants, with or without you.”
“You’re acting like a crazy person."
The room drops in temperature.
Crazy.
A crazy person.
Paranoid.
Delusional.
Crazy .
Stiles stuffs all the papers laying around the room back into his bag and slings it over his shoulder. He leaves Scott’s room without a goodbye.
At school the next day, Stiles checks out the window every chance he gets for the mystery man on the other side. So far, no show.
When his eyes go dry from staring too long, he moves away, unsatisfied, and is met with fawn colored eyes right in front of his own.
“Boo.”
He jumps back and Allison laughs. She holds her textbooks against her chest and flips some hair from her face.
“Don’t do that,” Stiles curses, grabbing the back of his neck.
“You were too easy,” she exclaims, leaning to the side so she can peer over his shoulder out the window. “What were you looking at?”
“Nobody - I mean nothing,” he sighs deeply, circling around her. Allison hums in approval and walks with him down the hall, but before he can round the corner, she puts a hand out and blocks the way.
“Wait, Stiles.”
Taken back, he stops and purses his lips, unsure of what to expect.
Allison avoids eye contact for a few beats but finally looks at him and angles her head up.
“Did Scott say anything to you? About. . . Anything?”
The halls are becoming desolate and Stiles hates the uncomfortable pressure of not knowing how to deal with this situation. He hates being in this position. Break Scott’s trust and tell her or lie and maybe never gain Allison’s trust.
“No - no he didn’t,” Stiles mutters unwillingly. Somehow lying to her felt as bad as lying to Scott himself. She blinks, attempting to read his tone, and in the end believes him.
“Okay,” she says softly, “I hope you guys can work things out.”
“We always do,” Stiles answers dryly, emotions drained from his voice.
She nods, “Soooo, I will see you later then.”
“Sure, see you.”
When Allison walks off, Stiles heads in the other direction, to class, but is stopped. This time he didn’t imagine it. There, out the window, in the shadow of the trees, is a man.
Anger boils over as Stiles' pace increases until he's reached the school exit, until he's rushing across the lawn and parking lot - straight for the woods.
Prove it, Stiles.
Prove it.
He's real.
He has to be.
Stiles looks around wildly, searches frantically, but the man isn't there.
Maybe he was never there in the first place.
Stiles doesn’t talk to anyone for the next few days, he’s preoccupied. Overall, he's found a few potential names worth investigating at least. But every time he thinks he's closer to finding something out, Scott’s words ring through his head.
Crazy person.
Maybe it's true.
He had nothing to go on. No evidence. Just a hunch.
A gut instinct , no facts or logic in the mix. Someone was walking around the school in the afternoon - So what?
Stiles rubs his temples and pushes hard, blowing air out from his lips, leaning back in the library chair. Without paying attention, the chair tilts a little too far and begins tumbling backwards.
“What are you so spacy about?” Lydia asks, her palm on the back of the chair, shoving him forward so the other two legs are stable again.
She takes the seat across from him and he isn’t coherent for at least a full minute. Lydia either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he's gone quiet because she doesn't question further and pulls books out of her bag, setting them on the desk.
Eventually he regains vocab and other kindergarten skills again.
“Lydia, can I ask you something?”
Her face is calm as she pops the cap off of a gold pen and writes in cursive on the planner under her nose. Her earrings sparkle under the fluorescent library lighting.
“Is it going to be quick? This essay isn’t going to write itself.”
“Do you ever try to do something good but end up screwing it all up?”
She smooths her dress down a bit and her rouge lips curve upward.
“Every guy I’ve ever dated?”
Stiles leans his arms on the table and watches how her head goes low again and how she begins writing, not giving him time to address that seriously. When he regains face, she rolls her eyes.
“Kidding, Stiles.”
He wishes he could reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear or spurt out every nice thought he’s ever had of her over the years - minus the inappropriate ones. In this corner of the library, where Lydia is finally giving him her undivided attention - he realizes just how shallow his crush has always been.
She’s pretty - stunning, actually - and smart, amazingly so. But all in all, he hardly knew anything about her. This whole time, all this pining, it was for a girl he held on a pedestal. An image, not a person.
“You’re not a screw up, Lydia,” he tells her gently, hoping every word goes through and manifests itself into her conscious so she can truly believe it.
"Maybe I don't know much about you, what you've been through, who you've been with, but - " he inhales and averts his eyes, "I just - I know you're worth more than you think."
Lydia’s eyebrows furrow, her lips part, her eyelids drop a little.
Stiles can’t take it.
Allison talks to her, comforts her, makes her laugh, does everything you’re supposed to do with the person you care about. Without expecting anything back.
“I gotta head out but good luck with your paper,” Stiles discloses, standing, gathering his things. The expression on her face ingrains itself sharply in his memory, stashed away, for another time when he deserves to face it.
It’s raining outside and Stiles can barely focus on the pile of notes all over his desk. His room is kind of a mess, his sheets are sprawled on the floor with his homework and documents from the Sheriff’s station. It’s like a tornado hit the room.
Ignoring all this, Stiles searches through his laptop, types in whatever he can find from the reports. He gulps down another energy drink and when his eye catches how late it is on the alarm clock, he unplugs it so he doesn’t have to add that on the details whirling through his head.
“Okay, you moved to San Francisco, not likely,” Stiles mumbles to himself, to the dark room. The only light is coming from the dim lamp on the desk - the one that flickers every now and then because the bulb is hanging on by a thread.
He remembered little about the man’s face - he was just too damn far to see. It was definatly a guy though. That narrows the suspects down, right? Stiles rubs his head as the phone by his wrist buzzes for the tenth time. He turns it over, opening a fresh energy drink so he can get a clue before the sun hits the clouds.
There’s a tap on the window.
Stiles freezes like a deer in headlights.
He slowly turns his head and pushes himself out of the computer chair. There’s another scrape and he mildly wonders if it’s just a tree branch sliding against the glass. When the tap gets louder, his expectation dies.
Stiles swallows, searching his room for the army knife his dad got him a few birthdays ago. When he slides under the bed to check, the window opens. The wind outside howls, rushes cold air into the room, until the window snaps shut again.
Stiles holds his breath, hidden under the bed, heartbeat rising.
He could scream but that wouldn't matter. His dad isn't even home. There's no sound in the room - except the rain against the window glass. Stiles' hand fumbles around, trying to blindly find the knife, until it touches something warm.
His blood runs cold.
Before he can react, Scott is next to him, palm against Stiles' collarbone.
“Hey, shh, it’s just me.”
Stiles catches his breath - feels like he’s been running a marathon - and reflexively takes one of Scott’s hands from his shirt, unable to speak, shivering a bit because Scott’s hands are cold. Scott gazes at him and then scoots closer, rubbing a thumb over Stiles’ hand in response.
“You’ve been up all night, Stiles?”
“Yeah,” Stiles replies, shutting his eyes a bit, exhausted beyond belief.
“This about that guy at the school?”
“Yeah.”
He waits for the lecture but Scott doesn’t give it to him. Instead, he removes his red hood off his head - having difficulty since the space is so small under the bed but manages - and Stiles can see how damp his hair is. Bothered, Stiles reaches out and moves a few dripping strands out of Scott's eyes. Scott blinks and stares back, soundless.
It’s then Stiles remembers why he isn't talking to Scott lately and releases his hand, not bothering to hide the resentment on his face. Scott picks up on it and doesn’t comment. He slides out from under the bed, leaving Stiles alone - like he wants.
Good.
He expects Scott to crawl back through the window but instead, Scott is moving around the room, moving things, making a white noise of his presence. Stiles listens silently to Scott’s shoes rubbing over the carpet, to the shuffling of papers, to the sound of debris hitting the trash can. Scott gathers the bed sheets piled next to the chair and makes the bed, going around each side to tuck everything in it’s rightful place, the way it’s most comfortable.
Stiles’ heart thumps slow and his throat sinks in on itself when he realizes what Scott’s doing.
“It’s four in the morning, Stiles,” Scott murmurs, plugging the alarm clock back in, picking up the untouched bottle of ADHD medication, “You should go to sleep soon.”
Cleaning the room, making the bed, organizing the desk, caring - cleared so much of the clutter overwhelming Stiles’ brain. The abnormal jumpiness, the over consumption of energy drinks, forgetting to take his medicine - Scott caught all of it.
Putting up a front, Stiles gets out from under the bed, sweeps his eyes over the clean room, and relief washes over him like a warm shower. While his mind takes a breather, he hesitates to meet Scott’s eyes. Scott is still putting the police reports together, stacking them neatly, quiet, composed.
“Allison got a weird letter today, from an admirer,” Scott says gravely, looking at Stiles.
A drop of water ghosts over his eyelash and then trails down the side of his cheek.
“Weird? How?” Stiles wonders, pushing emotions down in favor of curiosity, “She seemed okay with the last one."
“She’s already gotten five since then," Scott replies, glancing over, "All the same handwriting, same signature. Sincerely me again . She said they were harmless at first but now they’re getting scarily personal.”
Scott yanks his soaked bag off the window pane and unzips it, pulls a pink envelope out, and hands it over to Stiles who’s eyes scan on contact.
“It mentions her address and everything,” Scott explains, “And it talks about their future together. It’s disturbing.”
“Disturbing? Try psychotic,” Stiles scoffs, baffled. He hands it back over and crosses his arms over his chest, feeling smaller than before. “But I would know all about that - wouldn’t I?”
Scott’s eyes lift, unfazed and seeking. He puts the bag and letter aside and drops his arms to his side, turning his head to the window.
“I didn’t mean to say it like that, Stiles. You know I don’t think you’re actually. . .”
“A crazy person? You sure?” Stiles snaps bitterly. “Because you’re right. I’m running around trying to chase some shadow guy who doesn’t exist, getting freaking nowhere, doing nothing for anybody - and you're right. I am crazy.”
Stiles sits on the end of the bed and laces his fingers together, clutching hard.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that, Stiles, you know I didn’t,” Scott defends, “I would never do that to you, how could you even think -?”
“I don’t know,” Stiles responds quickly, tears threatening his vision. Shit. He can’t start crying like a baby in front of Scott over something so stupid and worthless. He knows he shouldn’t have interpreted it that way. Scott would never deliberately hurt him. It didn't stop it from stinging.
Stiles crams his hands together angrily.
Don’t cry. Get over it.
Suck it up.
Scott sits next to him and their arms touch. He downcasts his eyes to Stiles’ own.
“You're not your mom, Stiles."
That did it.
A tear trickles down Stiles’ face but he swipes at it, hoping Scott didn’t catch on. It only takes a single glance to know that he did.
“I think the guy at the school - the one you saw - could be stalking Allison,” Scott blurts, eyes fixated on Stiles' hands.
“It doesn’t matter. The police won’t do anything,” Stiles shrugs, “They don’t get involved unless he actually hurts her or draws attention to himself.”
“Then let’s do something about this guy. He’s scaring Allison and following her. Let's confront him after school tomorrow.”
When Scott bumps their shoulders, Stiles freezes.
He tries to calm down so he can speak properly without babbling or choking up but the attempt fails. Scott seems to get it and rubs his back soothingly, smoothing over Stiles' shirt in a slow motion.
“I can’t have you being mad at me, you’re my best friend,” Scott whispers faintly. He’s so careful and polite - moving something within Stiles.
The rain hits the roof a little harder above them, draining out the buzzing of the lamp on the desk - draining out Stiles' own breathing.
Scott shifts a little, “Stiles, I’m sor-”
“Don’t,” Stiles interrupts, wiping the underside of his eye, untangling his own hands, releasing the tension.
When they look at each other, another drop of water falls from the tip of Scott’s wet hair and hits the carpet and Stiles moves closer, leans his cheek into Scott’s shoulder, and shuts his eyes.
“Don’t be.”