Stiles has been laying in his bed for the past forty-five minutes, eyes fixed on the same spot on his ceiling, as he tries to lull himself to sleep. He's contemplating giving up, thinking about grabbing his laptop and settling down with some bizarre Netflix documentary, when he hears a familiar howl.
He doesn't even bother to look out his bedroom window; he could pick that howl out in a crowd of one million other wolves. He heads down the stairs, through the kitchen, and straight for the sliding glass door that leads out to his backyard.
Scott, still in his full-wolf form, runs up to the sliding glass door of the Stilinski home when he sees Stiles approaching. His tail is wagging excitedly as Stiles unlocks the door and slides it open. Stiles extends a hand, scratching Scott behind his ear as Scott's tongue lolls happily.
"Come on in," Stiles says quietly, taking a step back and sliding the door open a little further to allow for the wolf's passage. Scott doesn't move though, instead stamping his feet lightly on the concrete as he whines and bites down on Stiles's too-long sleeve. Scott tugs Stiles gently and Stiles rolls his eyes before stepping outside himself and sliding the door closed behind him. "Fine, we can stay outside."
Scott barks in response and Stiles rolls his eyes again. "For a little while only, Scotty," he says as he crosses the backyard and sits on the swinging chair that the two of them have been hanging out on for the past decade.
Scott whines at his words, clearly not too keen on the idea of having to go inside.
"It's cold out here, Scott. Not all of us have fur coats," Stiles says, pulling his legs up onto the swing to sit with his legs crossed so his bare feet can be tucked somewhat under his legs.
The words are barely out of his mouth when Scott hops up onto the swing, or more accurately, onto Stiles. In a matter of seconds Scott manages to sprawl himself completely across Stiles's lap. Stiles laughs and Scott leans up to lick happily at the crinkles Stiles gets by his eyes.
"Get off me, you mangy mutt," Stiles says, pushing at him lightly, still laughing.
Scott doesn't listen anyway, instead rolling slightly, urging Stiles with his eyes to rub his belly. Even when one of them is a freaking wolf they can still communicate with shared glances.
"You're such a dog," Stiles tells Scott teasingly, but he obliges, settling himself more comfortably against the back of the swing.
It's November and the breeze is chilly, surely turning Stiles's nose pink, but he doesn't move. The heavy, warm weight of Scott in his lap is enough to make the weather bearable, so Stiles relaxes and stares out at the brightly shining moon.
They've seen endless sunrises and sunsets from this swing. Stiles remembers his mother making kool-aid popsicles with them that they shared on this swing. He's sure the red and blue stains are still visible, but he's too comfortable to seek them out.
Scott remembers the two of them coming back here after t-ball games and sharing sandwiches on this swing as they recounted the highlights of the game.
Stiles remembers his dad making cheeseburgers on the grill while he and Scott hung upside down off the swing until blood rushed to their heads and they laughed on and on at each other's red faces.
Scott remembers how they used to tell each other ghost stories out here, a flashlight held between their feet as they sat facing one another. They always ended up curled up together when one of them would inevitably get scared. When their lives became actual horror stories, they still seem to find themselves here, crashing from the adrenaline. Tangled together on this swing, it always felt like nothing could touch them, even now.
It's comfortable here, it's home. And even with Scott covered in fur and nuzzling Stiles's thigh, it's completely normal. It's them.