I'll Stay as Long as You Want
“Still no sign of him?”
Stiles sips on his gatorade and squints out at the woods beyond the school, shaking his head at Scott.
“None. It’s like he sensed we were going to corner his ass and booked it.”
“Maybe he lost interest in Allison,” Scott sighs, relieved, sitting in front of Stiles at the picnic table. He folds his arms over the dusty wood and heaves out a sigh. A few leaves fall out of the trees overhead. One lands on Stiles’ head.
“We didn’t even have the chance to spook him,” Stiles mumbles, plucking the leaf from his hair, “Stalkers don’t just leave on their own.”
“I guess we were wrong then. Maybe the woods guy had nothing to do with Allison.”
“Allison hasn’t gotten another letter this week. That can’t be a coincidence. Let’s keep a lookout - he’s probably waiting for his chance,” Stiles declares, putting his gatorade out to Scott.
“Who’s waiting for what chance?” Lydia wonders, coming up to them, sitting by Scott and cocking her head to the side. Scott almost chokes on the gatorade bottle as Allison slides in next to Stiles, also curious.
“Uh - “ Scott glances at Stiles but he chooses now to shove a slice of pizza into his mouth - oh, Scott’s going to get revenge for that later - then slowly back at Lydia, “A lookout for coach,” he comes up with on the spot, “He’s uh - been on me about my grade in his class. I might not be able to play in another game if I don’t finish that paper due next week.”
“I can help you,” Lydia offers easily, earning a wide eyed look from Stiles. She twirls a lock of hair around her finger and waits for an answer. All eyes are trained on Scott.
“It’s okay, I’m almost done. Thanks though,” Scott smiles, unable to hide it, brushing off the visible jealousy of the other two
She shrugs and unpacks her lunch, biting into an apple and crossing her leg over the other. Allison glances at Stiles and then Scott before unwrapping her own lunch.
“Mind if I come cheer you on at the game tonight, Scott?” she asks, stirring the homemade pasta.
“What about - mmmf - me?” Stiles whines in between chews, giving her an accusing look. She laughs.
“Yes, you too, Stiles.”
“You better win, make it worth our time,” Lydia joins in, plucking the olives out of her salad.
Scott and Stiles share a knowing, fearful look.
“We’ll win, we’re great,” Stiles snorts, done eating.
Scott nods.
“Yep. We’re great.”
“We suck, Stiles,” Scott moans into his hands, pre-game nervousness entering his system. Stiles slaps a hand on his shoulder enthusiastically.
“We’re on the team, aren’t we? We’re fine.”
“Because they had two empty spots,” Scott mutters, "And Allison’s watching. I’m so dead.”
“I'm sorry - what? You still want to impress Allison?” Stiles scoffs in disbelief, yanking his lacrosse stick off the grass, “Scott, you're going to be that guy? The guy who chases the girl after she already let you down?”
"She didn't let me down, Stiles," Scott remarks sternly, "And guess what? You should have seen your face today with Lydia. You can't really complain.”
“Asses on the field,” Coach Finstock yells, blowing his whistle, whisking his arm out wildly. "Except you Greenberg, sit down!"
“At least you can play,” Stiles grumbles to Scott on the bleacher, watching his best friend stand up. “I got benched with Greenberg. Greenberg, Scott."
“Only because Murphy’s in the hospital,” Scott shrugs. "And Greenberg isn't as bad as everyone thinks he is. But if it makes you feel any better, I’m just gonna embarrass myself anyways.”
“Dude,” Stiles sighs, “You'll kill ‘em out there. Okay, don't actually kill anyone - but crack some skulls or - okay that’s -”
“Or you can cheer me on and I’ll be good,” Scott laughs, backing up and pulling his helmet over his head, giving Stiles a thumbs up. Stiles returns it but when Scott's back is turned, he has to rub his cheeks, to ignore the heat rising in them.
Behind him, Stiles can hear the crowd chattering and picks up a couple voices - look, there’s Stiles along with Why’s he benched? Stiles recognizes the voices and peeks over his shoulder, finding two people waving at him.
The Sheriff and Melissa sit down after he awkwardly waves back and then the referee blows the whistle. Stiles whips his head towards the game - the players are already at it, racing around the grass with the ball. Some of the guys out there are giants - what are they putting in the milk these days - and Stiles imagines Scott getting trampled and winces.
The game goes by pretty fast, neither team is all that great so nothing groundbreaking to see really. Scott has gotten the ball a few times but he fumbles too much, can’t keep his feet steady - just like with ice skating - but it’s amusing to see anyways.
Jackson is carrying the game for the most part, as much as Stiles hates to admit it. He’s not very fast but he’s a good shot. Which is what counts.
Danny’s the quick one. He’s good at stealing the ball and passing it to Jackson near the other team’s goal. They’re doing a great job at teamwork, something the rest of the players are lacking. It makes Stiles jealous for some reason - maybe because he wants to play out there too. Okay, he for sure wants to play in the game too.
In a blink, his eyes land on Scott again. Scott can’t seem to stay still but his zooming around is for nothing because the ball rarely goes his way. When their team scores, Stiles scans the crowd - Lydia’s strawberry blonde hair stands out against the sea of people. Allison is there too, clapping.
Watching Scott again, Stiles wonders if Lydia came to watch Jackson afterall. He is team captain and is kicking ass. It brings a little guilt over him, seeing Scott run around like a lost dog, and Allison is watching. Hopefully Allison s still cheering him on. Of course she is. She’s Allison, kind, sweet, Allison.
Out of nowhere, something flashes in Stiles’ vision.
Across the field, there’s a guy taking photos of the game.
At the same instant, Scott snags the ball. That would be great if it weren’t for a player from the other team ramming straight into his back, sending him to the ground, face planting like no tomorrow.
Oh, shit.
The referee blows the whistle and another flash goes across Stiles’ vision.
People are gathering around Scott, helping him stand. Stiles doesn’t realize it until he’s up and running across the field that he’s panicking. He shoves a few players out of the way but there are so many freaking people.
“How many fingers, McCall?” Coach is asking, holding three fingers up to Scott’s face impatiently.
“Two?” Scott answers hesitantly. The Coach drops a finger and looks at everyone, daring them to disagree.
“He’s fine! Everyone back off, he’s fine!”
Their teammates head back in position for the next inning and Scott turns to Stiles, “I’m okay-”
“That means you too, Stilinski! Back on the bench!” Coach shouts, pushing Stiles away from Scott, calling orders out to the other players.
Dejected, Stiles complies but another flash of light breaks his concentration. He zones in on the flash, on the kid with the camera. Something about it pisses Stiles off. It doesn't take much thinking to realize what it is.
Just now, the camera guy took a snap of Scott falling on the field. And a shot after.
That’s not happening. No way the whole school is seeing that.
Stiles goes around the field, bleeds into the darkness for a moment before he circles the other bleachers and catches the guy with the camera aiming for another picture.
“You think that’s funny?” Stiles charges, getting in front of the guy to block his range. “Delete the last picture you took. Now.”
“What the hell?” The boy questions bitterly, lowering the camera from his face, “This is for the yearbook. I’ll take whatever pictures I want.”
“Scott got hurt, delete it,” Stiles enforces, “Or your camera might not make it through the rest of the night.”
“Is that a threat?” the boy shoots back, “Because it sounds a lot like one.”
Making a split-second decision, Stiles snatches the camera from the boy’s hands and flees as fast as his legs can carry him.
Lucky for him, nobody is paying attention or he’d be in serious shit right now, especially with his dad sitting in seeing distance. Stiles doesn’t care about that right now or if this kid decks him later.
He can’t let that picture of Scott exist. It's humiliating.
His fingers fly through the photo set as he runs further - where the light of the field doesn’t quite reach anymore.
As his thumbs presses over more and more images, Stiles swallows a lump in his throat and his feet slow down until he's at a dead stop.
None of the photos are of the lacrosse game. Well, they are of the lacrosse game but of only one player.
Scott.
And after that, there are other picture of Scott. Some of him in the hallways at school, some of him walking home, some of him from outside his own house.
The trees rustle around Stiles and he looks up, noticing just how far he ran, how far the lacrosse field has gotten. The creepy, paranoid feeling rushes over him. He needs to make it back to Scott.
“Give it back, Stiles.”
Stiles spins around and there’s the camera boy, the dirtiest look on his face. Stiles' hand drops to his side, the cold metal of the camera pressed harshly in his palm.
“So you can stalk Scott more?” he asks, anger and fear whirling around his stomach and head.
“Call it what you want,” the boy retorts, calm and apathetic, “Nobody will believe you.”
“How do you know my name?” Stiles deters, his body preparing itself for a fight. The boy picks up on the change in Stiles' stance and he clicks his tongue.
“Because you’re always there, Stiles. Always with my Scotty. It’s sickening.”
“Don’t call him that,” Stiles growls, “Keep away from him, you freak.”
“You know what, you don’t want to do this,” the boy prompts, bowing his head and reaching into his back pocket. “Really, Stiles, all I need is a reason. Every word that comes from that foul mouth of yours adds to the list of why you shouldn't be - and why I should be with Scott.”
Stiles senses the rising danger even before the boy reveals his hand - showing off a small blade that’s glimmering in the faint light of the field beyond. His eyes are hungry as he moves forward.
“Cocky son of a bitch,” he sneers, “Didn’t you threaten me earlier? What happened, Stiles? Where’d that shit talking go?”
Stiles steps back, too terrified to run but afraid to stay. He could make it back to the field if he’s fast enough but the boy is directly in the way, giving him leeway to grab him - and although his built isn't impressive - not strong - something about his current demeanor makes Stiles think he would do more than get one slash in.
There’s a crazy look in his eye, a kind of violent lust.
“You don’t scare me,” Stiles lies, palms sweating so much that the camera almost slips out of his grip.
“Fooled you with the Allison letters, huh?” the boy chuckles, keeping in step with Stiles’ own, “You should learn to keep your nose where it doesn’t belong. That way I can buddy up with Scott, finally talk to him without you - without his little sidekick friend -”
“Buddy up?” Stiles interrupts, trying to come up with a plan, jumping when the camera falls from his hand and hits the ground by his foot.
The boy peeks at the camera mildly before his face goes back to Stiles.
“Well, I planned to. You seemed to be hanging around Allison a lot so I thought, hm , let’s get Stiles to pay attention to something else. Let’s see if he can rip his eyes away from Scott for one little second so I can talk to him. You're an eyesore, unnecessary.”
The boy touches the tip of the blade with his thumb and shakes his head, fond look in his eyes.
“And it worked. You suddenly disappeared from Scott’s life for a few days. I was about to take my well deserved chance to get to know him better but uh - heh - you had to show back up, didn’t you?”
“I'm sure you wanted an innocent talk,” Stiles replies, hard, furious, pointing to the camera on the ground, “And for the record - your little letters had nothing to do with me and Scott.”
All of a sudden, the boy’s face scrunches up in sweltering rage and he flies forward, straight at Stiles - but he’s jerked back and disarmed, his wrist pinned to his back and his body slammed to the ground all in one swoop.
Stiles gapes, watches the assailant sling the knife away from them and pin the boy down into the leaves. The boy struggles against the guy on top of him but is unable to move.
“Hope you have a decent lawyer,” the man sighs, stone faced, snapping a pair of cuffs onto the boy without batting an eyelash.
Stiles is still in shock, his body trying to process that he’s not threatened anymore - unless this new guy is a possible threat. The man notices him and stands up, yanking the boy up with him, gripping the back of his shirt. He shoves the boy back in the other direction, making a tch with his teeth, “Whatever was going on here, is over.”
The man releases the boy’s shirt long enough to grab the knife and camera off the ground. When he picks up the camera, he assesses Stiles for a second time.
“Run and that’s more charges under your belt, Matt."
The boy in cuffs' foot lifts and drops with force. He glares menacingly at both of them.
"Screw you."
Stiles doesn't know what to say as the man studies him. There’s a hollowness about him, one that’s unsettling. It hits him all at once where he’s seen him before.
He’s the figure from the woods.
The dark, emotionless eyes, the stiff stance, it's him.
“You’re not in shock, you’ll be fine,” the man assures Stiles, grabbing onto Matt’s shirt again, jerking him closer. “Can’t say the same for you. What is this? Your third assault? Let’s see if you can weasel your way out of the system this time.”
As the two walk off, towards the street instead of the field, Stiles is still at a loss, still sort of running on empty fumes. After recovering a little, he rushes up to them, reaching out for the man’s leather jacket - but retracts quickly when his eyes widen at Stiles - like a warning.
“Mind explaining?” Stiles asks not so nicely, the words thank you getting trapped in his lungs. “I saw you creeping around the school -”
The man appears reluctant to give him any information at all, looks like he's going to walk off. But he must sense the overbearing annoyance about Stiles that forces everyone to give in anyways.
“This runt here -” he suggests, pushing Matt forward, “Stalked my sister for three weeks so no I wasn’t creeping around your school. I was keeping an eye out for when he decided to pull something stupid like tonight. This isn’t his first crime. Not his first assault with a deadly weapon either. We done here?”
“You must be first choice for prom," Stiles proclaims to the boy, hostile. Matt glares back, thrashing in the man’s grip.
"You're so tough now that I'm in cuffs, Stiles."
“A lot of reports on you, aren’t there, Matt?” the cop points out, gripping the back of his neck tightly. “Good thing my sister caught you carrying this at school. Knew you couldn't resist using it again.”
He spins the knife in his hand and then pockets it, moving Matt in the direction of the street once more.
“Wait, I know every cop in Beacon Hills,” Stiles calls out, “I’m the Sheriff’s son. I would remember you.”
“Ever heard the term undercover? Sheriff's son?" the man grits out, “Forget you saw anything and go back to the lacrosse field.”
It made sense, explained why Stiles had never seen the guy before. Undercover cops were off the radar as far as the police force was concerned. They did a lot of dirty work in the shadows, hardly seen or heard by the public. Stiles clenches his fists.
“You still didn’t tell me your -”
Before Stiles can say anything more, the man is in front of him, cold expression on his face.
“You keep your mouth shut about this whole thing. Not a word to anyone at school, not to your friends.”
Stiles stares back and nods slowly, more threatened by this man than the kid who had a knife to him a second ago. The cop shows his badge - proof that he can arrest Matt - and once satisfaction crosses over Stiles’ face, he shuts his leather jacket.
“It’s Derek.”
That’s all he says before he goes with Matt towards the street, pushing him into a black car, driving off.
The game is over according to the cheering people swarming the field. Stiles feels like he’s limping back to the field even though he’s perfectly fine, physically.
Jackson is being held up by the team with a trophy in his hand and his name is being chanted. Numbly, Stiles passes all that noise, even passes where Melissa and the Sheriff are speaking with Lydia and Allison.
There’s too much noise.
He finds solace in the parking lot, in his jeep, blocking the screaming out, siting behind the wheel - trying to register everything that went down in the woods. It's all a strange flash of colors now, as if it didn't actually happen.
A tap on the glass shoots his heart into his throat. Oh, it’s only Scott. He smiles at Stiles and goes around the jeep to hop into the passenger's side.
“Hey, why’d you run off? You missed the winning shot,” Scott scolds, shutting the door so it’s silent again. Stiles bites the end of his lip, where it's already starting to split.
“Uh - I -”
Looking into the shining eyes of his best friend, Stiles can’t pick out how to tell him that he was the one being watched the entire time. That some creep was going to do who knows what to him. That the person they assumed was the stalker - who is apparently a cop - just hauled his ass off to jail or whatever right before Stiles got stabbed.
Yeah, not a buzzkill. At all.
The joy drains straight from Scott's face as he observes Stiles.
“You’re shaking."
Stiles stares in surprise, down at his hands which are white at the knuckles and trembling against the steering wheel. He doesn’t know what to do.
How to explain.
“Stiles?”
It’s not the right time. He can’t say what happened. He can’t get it out.
He can never get anything out. It’s never the right time.
Scott exits the jeep and the sound of the door shutting echoes, hurts a little.
No. Don't’ go get anyone.
Don’t get my dad. Don’t let him know.
A burst of cold air hits Stiles’ hot face as the driver's side opens and Scott gets close to him, hands gentle on his arms, concern embedded all over his features.
“I got you,” Scott promises, rubbing one of his arms, like asking for permission. “Okay, Stiles?”
He doesn’t ask what happened, doesn’t pressure Stiles into talking anymore - just watches carefully, presses his palm over Stiles’ wavering hand for comfort.
“I’m going to drive you home if that’s okay. Is it?”
Stiles nods without a second thought and gets out of the jeep. He’s never let Scott drive before because honestly, this jeep shouldn’t be driven by anyone else, but he’s too out of his right mind to argue.
They don’t say much after that, not until Scott parks into Stiles’ driveway. They don’t talk about how worried their parents are going to be or if Allison and Lydia are looking for them. Not at first. Not until it starts running around in Stiles’ already racing thoughts. He shifts uncomfortably and unbuckles, feeling the onset of what he wanted to avoid since the woods.
“You gotta call Melissa, tell her that we left. She’ll worry -”
“I’ll call her later,” Scott discloses, eyes on Stiles, “And your dad. Let him know you’re home.”
“Allison and Lydia-”
“Won’t miss us,” Scott cuts off soothingly, “Stiles, I’m not all that worried about them right now.”
Not worried about them .
The unsaid connotation is obvious but Stiles tries to fight it. He can feel his breath starting to rasp.
“Well, I’m good now. Thanks. I’m gonna head in.”
The lightheaded buzz blurs his vision when he jumps out of the jeep so Stiles grabs onto the door handle for a moment before trudging to the front steps of the house.
“Stiles, hey, hold on.”
Stiles knows the panic attack can set in at any moment. He hates it. It’s a slow tremor coursing through his body. It’s hard to open the door, hard to turn the key into the knob - but he does it somehow and stands in the safety of his home. It’s almost enough to stop it all, to drown out the rush of blood to his head.
“ Stiles- ”
Up the stairs.
Bedroom.
Stiles doesn’t remember when he laid down but all he can see now is the ceiling. He’s blinking rapidly, the circulation returning to his body. Scott’s face hovers over him and he looks worried - so, so, so worried.
“You almost passed out on me,” Scott murmurs, “Shit, Stiles. I’m calling my mom.”
“No,” Stiles protests, grabbing Scott’s wrist, “Don’t tell anyone.”
Scott’s eyes are bleary in wanting to understand and wanting to help. He let’s Stiles grab onto him so that he can get off the floor of the hallway, where he must have went faint.
He’s able to make it to the bedroom and onto his bed now at least. What a relief. He’s okay now.
Panic attack successfully avoided.
“I need some sleep and I’ll be fine,” Stiles lets out in a much quieter voice than he likes. There’s no response from Scott so he opens his weary eyes and looks at the doorway where Scott is still standing. He's visibly more torn up than Stiles feels.
“You practically blacked out, Stiles, I need to know that you’re-”
“I’m okay ,” Stiles argues, kicking his shoes off as if to make a point, “Want me to swear on the bible or something? I just got a little weird at the game, kinda freaked out for no reason.”
“There’s a reason.”
Stiles fluffs his pillow and presses his head into it, releasing some of the built up shock. When Scott doesn’t move an inch, he shuts his eyes.
“I’ll tell you tomorrow, Scott, okay? I need this right now though. I don’t want to think about it anymore.”
Scott is silent for a few minutes and then shifts at the door.
“Want me to go?”
Stiles ponders that, curls his fingers restlessly beneath his pillow, refuses to look at anything.
‘Yeah.”
There’s no sign of movement and Stiles inhales through his nose, pretends he’s fine, that he didn’t face down a blade not even an hour ago.
It’s not a big deal. Just a knife. He wouldn’t have hurt me. It was fine. I could handle it. I was okay.
He inhales again, a little louder, and swallows it down, sliding his eyes open.
Scott is by the bed, peering down at him, hand on the headboard.
“You don’t want me to leave, Stiles.”
The breath escapes from Stiles’ chest again.
Scott isn’t crying or anything but there's something about the way he's staring that makes Stiles believe he might any second. Mindlessly, Stiles shifts enough so that there’s room - and Scott doesn’t waste a second laying next to him.
The shock dies more and more and Stiles isn’t on the verge of an attack now. Maybe he’s more safe in this house. More safe in his own bed. But with Scott, he’s safer than the confines of any walls.
Scott leans forward a little - waits for Stiles to recoil or push him back but when he doesn’t - he brushes a kiss across his forehead, lingers there - I’ll stay as long as you want - and let's go.
When he pulls back, Stiles moves close again, accidentally follows Scott like he always does. Bewildered, Scott’s eyes track Stiles’ own, then trail to his lips for a moment. He exhales a little before flickering his gaze back up to Stiles' eyes. For some reason, there's a hint of guilt in his expression - of something that doesn’t make sense.
Stiles doesn't understand.
Hastily, Scott breaks their eye contact and chooses to pull Stiles forward against his chest, chooses not to mention whatever just happened, chooses to let the moment pass, unsettled, like so many other things.
Stiles pretends it doesn’t mean anything.